BOOKS  BY  JAMES  HUNEKER 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


UNICORNS.    12mo, net,  $1.75 

IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS.     12mo,  net,  $1.50 

NEW  COSMOPOLIS.    12mo net,  $1.50 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE.   12mo,  .  net,  $2.00 
FRANZ  LISZT.    Illustrated.    12mo,  .    .  net,  $2.00 

PROMENADES  OF' AN  IMPRESSIONIST. 
12mo net,  $1.50 

EGOISTS:  A  BOOK  OF  SUPERMEN. 

,   12mo net,  $1.50 

ICONOCLASTS:  A  BOOK  OF  DRAMATISTS. 
12mo net,  $1.50 

OVERTONES  :    A  BOOK  OF  TEMPERA 
MENTS.    12mo, net,  $1.50 

MEZZOTINTS    IN    MODERN    MUSIC. 
12mo net,  $1.50 

CHOPIN:  THE  MAN  AND  HIS  MUSIC. 
With  Portrait.     12mo, net,  $2.00 

VISIONARIES.    12mo net,  $1.50 

MELOMANIACS.    12mo net,  $1.50 


UNICORNS 


UNICORNS 


BY 

JAMES    HUNEKER 


I  would  write  on  the  lintels 
of  the  door-post, 'Whim'" 

— Emerson 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September,  1917 


COPYRIGHT.  1906,  BY  THE  NEW  YORK  HERALD  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT.  1907,  BY  THE  RIDGEWAY  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1909. 1911, 1916. 1917.  BY  THE  SUN  PRINTING  AND  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPYRIGHT.  i9u.  i9io,  me.  1917,  BY  THE  NEW  YORK  TIMES  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT.  1915,  1916.  BY  PUCK  PUBLISHING  CO. 

COPYRIGHT.  1917,  BY  NORTH  AMERICAN 
COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  NEW  YORK  EVENING  MAIL 


THIS  BOOK 

OF  SPLEEN  AND  GOSSIP  IS  INSCRIBED 
TO   MY  FRIEND 

EDWARD   ZIEGLER 


'Come!  let  us  lay  a  crazy  lance  in  rest 

And  tilt  at  windmills  under  a  wild  sky." 

— John  Galsworthy. 


'He  is  a  fribble,  a  sonsy  faddle,  whose 
conceits  veer  with  the  breeze  like  a  creak 
ing  weather-vane.    As  the  sterile  moon 
hath  her  librations,  so  must  he  boast  of 
his  oscillations,  thinking  them  eternal 
verities.   A  very  cockatoo  in  his  perched- 
up  vanity  and  prodigious  clatter.  ..." 
Wrom  "  The  Velvet  Cactus."   Anony 
mous.    Printed  at  the  Sign  of  the 
Cat  and  Cameo,  Threadneedlc  Street, 
London.    AD.  1723.    Ran.} 


392129 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    IN  PRAISE  OF  UNICORNS i 

II.    AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER:  THE  PASSING  OF 

EDWARD  MACDOWELL 6 

III.  REMY  DE   GOURMONT:    His  IDEAS.    THE 

COLOUR  OF  His  MIND *  18 

IV.  ARTZIBASHEF 33 

V.    A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES <  53 

VI.    GEORGE  SAND^ 67 

VII.    THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 82 

VIII.    THE  CASE  OF  PAUL  CEZANNE 96 

DC.    BRAHMSODY 106 

X.    THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K,  HUYSMANS    ...  in 

XI.    STYLE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE    .  121 

XII.    THE  QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD    .  .  139 

XIII.  ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 151 

XIV.  THE  LOST  MASTER 161 

XV.    THE  GRAND  MANNER  IN  PIANOFORTE  PLAY 
ING  171 

XVI.    JAMES  JOYCE 187 

XVII.    CREATIVE  INVOLUTION 195 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.    FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 203 

XIX.      O.   W 212 

XX.  A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS  ....  218 

XXI.    THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 228 

XXII.    LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 241 

XXIII.  THE  REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE  .  .  261 

XXIV.  PlLLOWLAND 277 

XXV.  CROSS-CURRENTS     IN     MODERN     FRENCH 

LITERATURE 283 

XXVI.  MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 300 

XXVII.  MY  FIRST  MUSICAL  ADVENTURE 317 

XXVIII.  VIOLINISTS  Now  AND  YESTERYEAR  ....  323 

XXIX.  RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 339 

XXX.  PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 353 


viii 


UNICORNS 


UNICORNS 

CHAPTER  I 
IN  PRAISE  OF  UNICORNS 

"The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  were  fighting  for  the  crown: 
The  Lion  beat  the  Unicorn  all  round  the  town."  .  .  . 

IN  the  golden  book  of  wit  and  wisdom, 
Through  the  Looking-Glass,  the  Unicorn  rather 
disdainfully  remarks  that  he  had  believed  chil 
dren  to  be  fabulous  monsters.  Alice  smilingly 
retorts:  "Do  you  know,  I  always  thought  Uni 
corns  were  fabulous  monsters,  too?  I  never 
saw  one  alive  before!"  "Well,  now  that  we 
have  seen  each  other,"  said  the  Unicorn,  "if 
you'll  believe  in  me,  I'll  believe  in  you.  Is 
that  a  bargain?"  "Yes,  if  you  like,"  said 
Alice.  No  such  ambiguous  bargains  are  needed 
to  demonstrate  the  existence  of  Unicorns. 
That  is,  not  for  imaginative  people.  A  mythical 
monster,  a  heraldic  animal,  he  figures  in  the 
dictionary  as  the  Monoceros,  habitat,  India; 
and  he  is  the  biblical  Urus,  sporting  one  horn, 
a  goat  beard  and  a  lion's  tail.  He  may  be  all 
these  things  for  practical  persons;  no  man  is  a 
genius  to  his  wife.  But  maugre  that  he  is  some 
thing  more  for  dreamers  of  dreams;  though 
i 


IN  PRAISE  OF  UNICORNS 

-cot  the  Hippogrifi,  with  its  liberating  wings, 
volplaning  through  the  Fourth  Dimension  of 
Space;  nor  yet  is  he  tender  Undine,  spirit  of 
fountains,  of  whom  the  Unicorn  asked:  "By 
the  waters  of  what  valley  has  jealous  mankind 
hidden  the  source  of  your  secrets?"  (Cousin 
german  to  the  Centaur  of  Maurice  de  Gu6rin, 
he  can  speak  in  like  cadence.) 

Alice  with  her  " dreaming  eyes  of  wonder" 
was,  after  the  manner  of  little  girls,  somewhat 
pragmatic.  She  believed  in  Unicorns  only 
when  she  saw  one.  Yet  we  must  believe  with 
out  such  proof.  Has  not  the  Book  of  Job  put 
this  question:  "Canst  thou  bind  the  Unicorn 
with  his  band  in  the  furrow  ?  "  As  if  a  harnessed 
Unicorn  would  be  credible.  We  prefer  placing 
the  charming  monster,  with  the  prancing  tiny 
hoofs  of  ivory  (surely  Chopin  set  him  to  mu 
sical  notation  in  his  capricious  second  Etude  in 
F;  Chopin  who,  if  man  were  soulless,  would 
have  endowed  him  with  one)  in  the  same  cate 
gory  as  the  Chimera  of  "The  Temptation  of 
St.  Antony,"  which  thus  taunted  the  Sphinx: 
"I  am  light  and  joyous !  I  offer  to  the  eyes  of 
men  dazzling  perspectives  with  Paradise  in 
the  clouds  above.  ...  I  seek  for  new  per 
fumes,  for  vaster  flowers,  for  pleasures  never 
felt  before.  .  .  ." 

With  Unicorns  we  feel  the  nostalgia  of  the 

infinite,  the  sorcery  of  dolls,  the  salt  of  sex, 

the  vertigo  of  them  that  skirt  the  edge  of  perilous 

ravines,  or  straddle  the  run  of  finer  issues.    He 

2 


IN  PRAISE  OF  UNICORNS 

dwells  in  equivocal  twilights;  and  he  can  stare 
the  sun  out  of  countenance.  The  enchanting 
Unicorn  boasts  no  favoured  zone.  He  runs 
around  the  globe.  He  is  of  all  ages  and  climes. 
He  knows  that  fantastic  land  of  Gautier,  which 
contains  all  the  divine  lost  landscapes  ever 
painted,  and  whose  inhabitants  are  the  lovely 
figures  created  by  art  in  granite,  marble,  or 
wood,  on  walls,  canvas,  or  crystal.  Betimes 
he  flashes  by  the  nymph  in  the  brake,  and 
dazzled,  she  sighs  with  desire.  Mallarme'  set 
him  to  cryptic  harmonies,  and  placed  him  in 
a  dim  rich  forest  (though  he  called  him  a  faun; 
a  faun  in  retorsion).  Like  the  apocryphal 
Sadhuzag  in  Flaubert's  cosmical  drama  of 
dreams,  which  bore  seventy-four  hollow  antlers 
from  which  issued  music  of  ineffable  sweetness, 
our  Unicorn  sings  ravishing  melodies  for  those 
who  possess  the  inner  ear  of  mystics  and  poets. 
When  angered  he  echoes  the  Seven  Thunders 
of  the  Apocalypse,  and  we  hear  of  desperate 
rumours  of  fire,  flood,  and  disaster.  And  he 
haunts  those  ivory  gates  of  sleep  whence  come 
ineffable  dreams  to  mortals. 

He  has  always  fought  with  the  Lion  for  the 
crown,  and  he  is  always  defeated,  but  invariably 
claims  the  victory.  The  crown  is  Art,  and  the 
Lion,  being  a  realist  born,  is  only  attracted  by 
its  glitter,  not  the  symbol.  The  Unicorn,  an 
idealist,  divines  the  inner  meaning  of  this  pre 
cious  fillet  of  gold.  Art  is  the  modern  philos 
opher's  stone,  and  the  most  brilliant  jewel 
3 


IN  PRAISE  OF  UNICORNS 

in  this  much-contested  crown.  Eternal  is  the 
conflict  of  the  Real  and  the  Ideal;  Aristotle 
and  Plato;  Alice  and  the  Unicorn;  the  practical 
and  the  poetic;  butterflies  and  geese;  and 
rare  roast-beef  versus  the  impossible  blue  rose. 
And  neither  the  Lion  nor  the  Unicorn  has  yet 
fought  the  battle  decisive.  Perhaps  the  day 
may  come  when,  weariness  invading  their 
very  bones,  they  may  realise  that  they  are  as 
different  sides  of  the  same  coveted  shield; 
matter  and  spirit,  the  multitude  and  the  in 
dividual.  Then  unlock  the  ivory  tower,  abolish 
the  tyrannies  of  superannuated  superstitions, 
and  give  the  people  vision,  without  which  they 
perish.  The  divine  rights  of  humanity,  no 
longer  of  kingly  cabbages. 

The  dusk  of  the  future  is  washed  with  the 
silver  of  hope.  The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  in 
single  yoke.  Strength  and  Beauty  should 
represent  the  fusion  of  the  Ideal  and  the  Real. 
There  should  be  no  anarchy,  no  socialism,  no 
Brotherhood  or  Sisterhood  of  mankind,  just 
the  millennium  of  sense  and  sentiment.  What 
title  shall  we  give  that  far-away  time,  that 
longed-for  Utopia?  With  Alice  and  the  Faun 
we  forget  names,  so  let  us  follow  her  method 
when  in  doubt,  and  exclaim:  "Here  then! 
Here  then!"  Morose  and  disillusioned  souls 
may  cry  aloud:  "Ah !  to  see  behind  us  no  longer, 
on  the  Lake  of  Eternity,  the  implacable  Wake 
of  Time!"  nevertheless,  we  must  believe  in 
the  reality  of  our  Unicorn.  He  is  Pan.  He  is 
4 


IN  PRAISE  OF  UNICORNS 

Puck.  He  is  Shelley.  He  is  Ariel.  He  is  Whim, 
He  is  Irony.  And  he  can  boast  with  Emer 
son: 

"I  am  owner  of  the  sphere, 
Of  the  seven  stars  and  the  solar  year, 
Of  Caesar's  hand  and  Plato's  brain, 
Of  Lord  Christ's  heart  and  Shakespeare's  strain." 


CHAPTER  II 
AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

THE   PASSING   OF   EDWARD 
MACDOWELL 

WHOM  the  gods  love ! 


Admirers  of  Edward  MacDowelPs  Sonata 
Tragica  may  recall  the  last  movement,  in  which, 
after  a  triumphant  climax,  the  curtain  falls  on 
tragic  misery.  It  was  the  very  Greek-like  be 
lief  of  MacDowell  that  nothing  is  more  sub 
limely  awful  than  "to  heighten  the  darkness 
of  tragedy  by  making  it  follow  closely  on  the 
heels  of  triumph."  This  he  accomplished  in  his 
first  sonata,  and  fate  has  ironically  transposed 
to  the  life  of  its  composer  the  cruel  and  tragic 
drama  of  his  own  music.  Despite  occasional 
days  brightened  by  a  flitting  hope,  the  passing 
of  Edward  MacDowell  has  begun.  He  is  no 
longer  an  earth-dweller.  His  body  is  here, 
but  his  brain  elsewhere.  Not  mad,  not  melan 
choly,  not  sunken  in  the  stupor  of  indifference, 
his  mind  is  translated  to  a  region  where  serenity, 

[The  above  appeared  in  the  New  York  Herald,  June  24, 
1906,  and  is  reprinted  by  request.  Edward  MacDowell  died 
January  23,  1908.] 

6 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

even  happiness,  dwells.  It  is  doubtless  the 
temporary  arrest  of  the  dread  mental  malady 
before  it  plunges  its  victims  into  darkness. 
Luckily,  with  the  advent  of  that  last  phase,  the 
body  will  also  succumb,  and  the  most  poetic 
composer  of  music  in  America  be  for  us  but  a 
fragrant  memory. 

Irony  is  a  much-abused  word,  yet  does  it 
not  seem  the  very  summit  of  pitiless  irony  for 
a  man  of  MacDowelPs  musical  and  intellectual 
equipment  and  physical  health  to  be  stricken 
down  at  the  moment  when,  after  the  hard 
study  of  twenty-five  years,  he  has,  as  the  ex 
pression  goes,  found  himself?  And  the  gods 
were  good  to  him  —  too  good. 

At  his  cradle  poetry  and  music  presided. 
He  was  a  born  tone-poet.  He  had  also  the 
painter's  eye  and  the  interior  vision  of  the 
seer.  A  mystic  and  a  realist.  The  practical 
side  of  his  nature  was  shown  by  his  easy  grasp 
of  the  technics  of  pianoforte-playing.  He  had 
a  large,  muscular  hand,  with  a  formidable  grip 
on  the  keyboard.  Much  has  been  said  of  the 
idealist  MacDowell,  but  this  young  man,  who 
had  in  his  veins  Scotch,  Irish,  and  English 
blood,  loved  athletic  sports;  loved,  like  Hazlitt, 
a  fast  and  furious  boxing-match.  The  call  of 
his  soul  won  him  for  music  and  poetry.  Other 
wise  he  could  have  been  a  sea-captain,  a  sol 
dier,  or  an  explorer  in  far-away  countries.  He 
had  the  physique;  he  had  the  big,  manly 
spirit.  We  are  grateful,  selfishly  grateful,  con- 
7 


AN  AMERICAN   COMPOSER 

sidering  his  life's   tragedy,  that  he  became  a 
composer. 

Here,  again,  in  all  this  abounding  vitality, 
the  irony  of  the  skies  is  manifest.  Never  a 
dissipated  man,  without  a  touch  of  the  im 
providence  we  ascribe  to  genius,  a  practical 
moralist  —  rare  in  any  social  condition  —  moder 
ate  in  his  tastes,  though  not  a  Puritan,  he  never 
theless  has  been  mowed  down  by  the  ruthless 
reaper  of  souls  as  if  his  were  negligible  clay. 
But  he  was  reckless  of  the  most  precious  part 
of  him,  his  brain.  He  killed  that  organ  by 
overwork.  Not  for  gain  —  the  money-getting 
ideal  and  this  man  were  widely  asunder  —  but 
for  the  love  of  teaching,  for  the  love  of  sharing 
with  others  the  treasures  in  his  overflowing 
storehouse,  and  primarily  for  the  love  of  music. 
He,  American  as  he  was  —  it  is  sad  to  speak 
of  him  in  the  past  tense  —  and  in  these  piping 
days  of  the  pursuit  of  the  gold  piece,  held  stead 
fast  to  his  art.  He  attempted  to  do  what  others 
have  failed  in,  he  attempted  to  lead,  here  in 
our  huge,  noisy  city,  antipathetic  to  aesthetic 
creation,  the  double  existence  of  a  composer 
and  a  pedagogue.  He  burned  away  the  delicate 
neurons  of  the  cortical  cells,  and  to-day  he 
cannot  say  " pianoforte"  without  a  trial.  He 
suffers  from  aphasia,  and  locomotor  ataxia  has 
begun  to  manifest  itself.  It  would  be  tragedy 
in  the  household  of  any  man;  it  is  doubly  so 
in  the  case  of  Edward  MacDowell. 

He  has  just  passed  forty-five  years  and  there 
8 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

are  to  his  credit  some  sixty  works,  about  one 
hundred  and  thirty-two  compositions  in  all. 
These  include  essays  in  every  form,  except 
music-drama  —  symphonic  and  lyric,  concertos 
and  sonatas  for  piano,  little  piano  pieces  of  del 
icate  workmanship,  charged  with  poetic  mean 
ings,  suites  for  orchestra  and  a  romance  for 
violoncello,  with  orchestral  accompaniment.  As 
a  boy  of  fifteen  MacDowell  went  to  the  Paris 
Conservatoire,  there  entering  the  piano  classes 
of  Marmontel.  It  was  in  1876.  Two  years 
later  I  saw  him  at  the  same  institution  and 
later  in  comparing  notes  we  discovered  that  we 
had  both  attended  a  concert  at  the  Trocadero, 
wherein  Nicholas  Rubinstein,  the  brilliant 
brother  of  Anton,  played  the  B  flat  minor  con 
certo  of  a  youthful  and  unknown  composer, 
Peter  Illyitch  Tschaikovsky  by  name.  This 
same  concerto  had  been  introduced  to  America 
in  1876  by  Hans  von  Billow,  to  whom  it  is 
dedicated.  Rubinstein's  playing  took  hold  of 
young  MacDowelFs  imagination.  He  saw  there 
was  no  chance  of  mastering  such  a  torrential 
style  in  Paris,  or,  for  that  matter,  in  Germany. 
He  had  enjoyed  lessons  from  Teresa  Carrefio, 
but  the  beautiful  Venezuelan  was  not  then  the 
virtuosa  of  to-day. 

So  MacDowell,  who  was  accompanied  by 
his  mother,  a  sage  woman  and  deeply  in  sym 
pathy  with  her  son's  aims,  went  to  Frankfort, 
where  he  had  the  benefit  of  Karl  Heymann's 
tuition.  He  was  the  only  pianist  I  ever  heard 
9 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

who  could  be  compared  to  our  Rafael  Joseffy. 
But  his  influences,  while  marked  in  the  develop 
ment  of  his  American  pupil,  did  not  weaken 
MacDowell's  individuality.  Studies  in  com 
position  under  Joachim  Raff  followed,  and  then 
he  journeyed  to  Weimar  for  his  baptism  of 
fire  at  the  hands  of  Lizst.  That  genial  Prospero 
had  broken  his  wand  of  virtuoso  and  devoted 
himself  to  the  culture  of  youthful  genius  and 
his  own  compositions.  He  was  pleased  by  the 
force,  the  surety,  the  brilliancy  and  the  poetic 
qualities  of  MacDowelPs  playing,  and  he  laugh 
ingly  warned  Eugen  d'Albert  to  look  to  his 
laurels.  But  music  was  in  the  very  bones  of 
MacDowell,  and  a  purely  virtuoso  career  had 
no  attraction  for  hina.  He  married  in  1884 
Marian  Nevins,  of  New  York,  herself  a  pianist 
and  a  devoted  propagandist  of  his  music.  The 
pair  settled  in  Wiesbaden,  and  it  was  the  hap 
piest  period  of  MacDoweirs  career.  He  taught; 
he  played  as  "guest"  in  various  German  cities; 
above  all,  he  composed.  His  entire  evolution 
is  surveyed  in  Mr.  Lawrence  Oilman's  sym 
pathetic  monograph.  It  was  in  Wiesbaden  that 
he  laid  the  foundation  of  his  solid  technique  as 
a  composer. 

I  once  asked  him  during  one  of  our  meetings 
how  he  had  summoned  the  courage  to  leave 
such  congenial  surroundings.  In  that  half- 
smiling,  half-shy  way  of  his,  so  full  of  charm 
and  naivete,  he  told  me  his  house  had  burned 
down  and  he  had  resolved  to  return  home  and 


10 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

make  enough  money  to  build  another.  He 
came  to  America  in  1888  and  found  himself, 
if  not  famous,  at  least  well  known.  To  Frank 
van  der  Stucken  belongs  the  glory  of  having 
launched  the  young  composer,  and  so  long  ago 
as  1886  in  the  old  Chickering  Hall.  Some  would 
like  to  point  to  the  fact  that  America  was  Mac- 
DowelPs  artistic  undoing,  but  the  truth  is 
against  them.  As  a  matter  of  musical  history 
he  accomplished  his  best  work  in  the  United 
States,  principally  on  his  farm  at  Peterboro, 
N.  H.  —  hardly,  one  would  imagine,  artistic 
soil  for  such  a  dreamer  in  tones.  But  life  has 
a  way  of  contradicting  our  theories.  Teaching, 
I  have  learned,  was  not  pursued  to  excess  by 
MacDowell,  who  had  settled  in  Boston.  Yet 
I  wish  there  were  sumptuary  legislation  for 
such  cases.  Why  should  an  artist  like  Mac 
Dowell  have  been  forced  into  the  shafts  of  dull 
routine?  It  is  the  larger  selfishness,  all  this, 
but  I  cling  to  it.  MacDowell  belonged  to  the 
public.  Joseffy  belongs  to  the  public.  They 
doubtless  did  and  do  much  good  as  teachers, 
but  the  public  is  the  loser.  Besides,  if  Mac 
Dowell,  who  was  a  virtuoso  had  confined  him 
self  to  recitals  he  might  not 

Alas!  all  this  is  bootless  imagining.  He 
launched  himself  with  his  usual  unselfishness 
into  tlie  advancement  of  his  scholars,  and  when 
in  1896  he  was  called  to  the  chair  of  music  at 
Columbia  the  remaining  seven  years  of  his 
incumbency  he  gave  up  absolutely  to  his  classes. 
ii 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

A  sabbatical  year  intervened.  He  went  to 
Switzerland  for  a  rest.  Then  he  made  a  tour 
of  the  West,  a  triumphal  tour;  and  later  fol 
lowed  the  regrettable  difference  with  Columbia. 
He  resigned  in  1904,  and  I  doubt  if  he  had  had 
a  happy  day  since  —  that  is,  until  the  wave 
of  forgetfulness  came  over  him  and  blotted 
out  all  recollections. 

As  a  pianist  I  may  only  quote  what  Rafael 
Joseffy  once  said  to  me  after  a  performance  of 
the  MacDowell  D  minor  concerto  by  its  com 
poser:  "  What's  the  use  of  a  poor  pianist  try 
ing  to  compete  with  a  fellow  who  writes  his 
own  music  and  then  plays  it  the  way  Mac 
Dowell  does?"  It  was  said  jestingly,  but,  as 
usual,  when  Joseffy  opens  his  mouth  there  is 
a  grain  of  wisdom  in  the  speech.  MacDowelPs 
French  training  showed  in  his  "pianism"  in 
the  velocity,  clarity,  and  pearly  quality  of  his 
scales  and  trills.  He  had  the  elegance  of  the 
salon  player;  he  knew  the  traditions.  But  he 
was  modern,  German  and  Slavic  in  his  com 
bined  musical  interpretation  and  fiery  attack. 
His  tone  was  large;  at  times  it  was  brutal. 
This  pianist  did  not  shine  in  a  small  hall.  He 
needed  space,  as  do  his  later  compositions. 
There  was  something  both  noble  and  elemental 
in  the  performance  of  his  own  sonatas.  At  his 
instrument  his  air  of  preoccupation,  his  fine 
poetic  head,  the  lines  of  which  were  admirably 
salient  on  the  concert  stage,  and  his  passion 
in  execution  were  notable  details  in  the  har- 
12 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

monious  picture.  Like  Liszt,  MacDowell  and 
his  Steinway  were  as  the  rider  and  his  steed. 
They  seemed  inseparable.  Under  the  batons 
of  Nikisch,  Gericke,  Paur,  and  Seidl  we  heard 
him,  and  for  once  at  least  the  critics  were  unan 
imous. 

When  I  first  studied  the  MacDowell  music 
I  called  the  composer  "a  belated  Romantic." 
A  Romantic  he  is  by  temperament,  while  his 
training  under  Raff  further  accentuated  that 
tendency.  It  is  a  dangerous  matter  to  make 
predictions  of  a  contemporary  composer,  yet 
a  danger  critically  courted  in  these  times  of 
rapid-fire  judgments.  I  have  been  a  sinner 
myself,  and  am  still  unregenerate,  for  if  it  be 
sinful  to  judge  hastily  in  the  affirmative,  by 
the  same  token  it  is  quite  as  grave  an  error  to 
judge  hastily  in  the  negative.  So  I  shall  dare 
the  possible  contempt  of  the  succeeding  critical 
generation,  which  I  expect  —  and  hope  —  will 
not  calmly  reverse  our  dearest  predictions,  and 
range  myself  on  the  side  of  MacDowell.  And 
with  this  reservation;  I  called  him  the  most 
poetic  composer  of  America.  He  would  be  a 
poetic  composer  in  any  land;  yet  it  seems  to  me 
that  his  greatest,  because  his  most  individual, 
work  is  to  be  found  in  his  four  piano  sonatas. 
I  am  always  subdued  by  the  charm  of  his  songs; 
but  he  did  not  find  his  fullest  expression  in  his 
lyrics. 

The  words  seemed  to  hamper  the  bold  wing 
strokes  of  his  inspiration.  He  did  not  go  far 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

enough  in  his  orchestral  work  to  warrant  our 
saying:  "Here  is  something  new  I"  He  shows 
the  influence  of  Wagner  slightly,  of  Grieg,  of 
Raff,  of  Liszt,  in  his  first  Orchestral  Suite,  his 
Hamlet  and  Ophelia,  Launcelot  and  Elaine; 
The  Saracens  and  Lovely  Alda,  the  Indian 
Suite,  and  in  the  two  concertos.  The  form  is 
still  struggling  to  emerge  from  the  bonds  of 
the  Romantics  —  of  classic  influence  there  is 
little  trace.  But  the  general  effect  is  fragmen 
tary.  It  is  not  the  real  MacDowell,  notwith 
standing  the  mastery  of  technical  material,  the 
genuine  feeling  for  orchestral  colour,  which  is 
natural,  not  studied.  There  are  poetic  moods 
—  MacDowell  is  always  a  poet  —  yet  no  path- 
breaker.  Indeed,  he  seemed  as  if  hesitating. 
I  remember  how  we  discussed  Brahms,  Tschai- 
kovsky,  and  Richard  Strauss.  The  former  he 
admired  as  a  master  builder;  the  latter  piqued 
his  curiosity  tremendously,  particularly  Also 
Sprach  Zarathustra.  I  think  that  Tschaikovsky 
made  the  deepest  appeal,  though  he  said  that 
the  Russian's  music  sounded  better  than  it 
was.  Grieg  he  admired,  but  Grieg  could  never 
have  drawn  the  long  musical  line  we  find  in 
the  MacDowell  sonatas. 

The  fate  of  intermediate  types  is  inevitable. 
Music  is  an  art  of  specialisation:  the  Wagner 
music-drama,  Chopin  piano  music,  Schubert 
songs,  Beethoven  symphony,  Liszt  symphonic 
poems,  and  Richard  Strauss  tone-poems,  all 
these  are  unique.  MacDowell  has  invented 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

many  lovely  melodies.  That  the  Indian  duet 
for  orchestra,  the  Woodland  Sketches,  New 
England  Idyls,  the  Sea  Pieces  — To  the  Sea 
is  a  wonderful  transcription  of  the  mystery, 
and  the  salt  and  savour  of  the  ocean  —  will 
have  a  long  life,  but  not  as  long  as  the  piano 
sonatas.  By  them  he  will  stand  or  fall.  Mac- 
Dowell  never  goes  chromatically  mad  on  his 
harmonic  tripod,  nor  does  he  tear  passion  to 
tatters  in  his  search  of  the  dramatic.  If  he 
recalls  any  English  poet  it  is  Keats,  and  like 
Keats  he  is  simple  and  sensuous  in  his  imagery, 
and  a  lover  of  true  romance;  not  the  sham 
ecstasies  of  mock  mediaeval  romance,  but  that 
deep  and  tender  sentiment  which  we  encounter 
in  the  poetry  of  Keats  —  in  the  magic  of  a 
moon  half  veiled  by  flying  clouds;  in  the  mys 
tery  and  scent  of  old  and  tangled  gardens.  I 
should  call  MacDowell  a  landscape-painter  had 
I  not  heard  his  sonata  music.  Those  sonatas, 
the  Tragica,  Eroica,  Norse,  and  Keltic,  with 
their  broad,  coloured  narrative,  ballad-like 
tone,  their  heroic  and  chivalric  accents,  epic 
passion,  and  feminine  tenderness.  The  psychol 
ogy  is  simple  if  you  set  this  music  against  that 
of  Strauss,  of  Loeffler,  or  of  Debussy. 

But  it  is  noble,  noble  as  the  soul  of  the  man 
who  conceived  it.  Elastic  in  form,  orchestral 
in  idea,  these  sonatas  —  which  are  looser  spun 
in  the  web  than  Liszt's  —  will  keep  alive  the 
name  of  MacDowell.  This  statement  must 
not  be  considered  as  evidence  that  I  fail  to 
15 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

enjoy  his  other  work.  I  do  enjoy  much  of  it, 
especially  the  Indian  Orchestral  Suite;  but  the 
sonatas  stir  the  blood,  above  all  the  imagina 
tion.  When  the  Tragica  appeared  I  did  not 
dream  of  three  such  successors.  Now  I  like 
best  the  Keltic,  with  its  dark  magic  and  its 
tales  of  Deirdre  and  the  " great  Cuchullin." 
This  fourth  sonata  is  as  Keltic  as  the  combined 
poetic  forces  of  the  neo-Celtic  renascence  in 
Ireland. 

I  believe  MacDowell,  when  so  sorely  stricken, 
was  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  He  spoke 
vaguely  to  me  of  studies  for  new  symphonic 
works,  presumably  in  the  symphonic-poem  form 
of  Liszt.  He  would  have  always  remained  the 
poet,  and  perhaps  have  pushed  to  newer  scenes, 
but,  like  Schumann,  Donizetti,  Smetana  and 
Hugo  Wolf,  his  brain  gave  way  under  the  strain 
of  intense  study.  The  composition  of  music  in 
volves  and  taxes  all  the  higher  cerebral  centres. 

The  privilege  was  accorded  me  of  visiting 
the  sick  man  at  his  hotel  several  weeks  ago, 
and  I  am  glad  I  saw  him,  for  his  appearance 
dissipated  the  painful  impression  I  had  con 
jured  up.  Our  interview,  brief  as  it  was,  be 
came  the  reverse  of  morbid  or  unpleasant  before 
it  terminated.  With  his  mental  disintegration 
sunny  youth  has  returned  to  the  composer.  In 
snowy  white,  he  looks  not  more  than  twenty- 
five  years  old,  until  you  note  the  grey  in  his 
thick,  rebellious  locks.  There  is  still  gold  in 
his  moustache  and  his  eyes  are  luminously 
16 


AN  AMERICAN  COMPOSER 

blue.  His  expression  suggests  a  spirit  purged 
of  all  grossness  waiting  for  the  summons.  He 
smiles,  but  not  as  a  madman;  he  talks  hesi 
tatingly,  but  never  babbles.  There  is  continuity 
in  his  ideas  for  minutes.  Sometimes  the  word 
fits  the  idea;  oftener  he  uses  one  foreign  to  his 
meaning.  His  wife,  of  whose  devotion,  almost 
poignant  in  its  earnestness,  it  would  be  too  sad 
to  dwell  upon,  is  his  faithful  interpreter.  He 
moves  with  difficulty.  He  plays  dominoes, 
but  seldom  goes  to  the  keyboard.  He  reads 
slowly  and,  like  the  unfortunate  Friedrich 
Nietzsche,  he  rereads  one  page  many  times. 
I  could  not  help  recalling  what  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Foerster-Nietzsche  told  me  in  Weimar  of  her 
brother.  One  day,  noticing  that  she  silently 
wept,  the  poet-philosopher  exclaimed: 

"But  why  do  you  weep,  little  sister?  Are 
we  not  very  happy?" 

MacDowell  is  very  happy  and  his  wife  is 
braver  than  Nietzsche's  sister.  One  fragment 
of  his  conversation  I  recall.  With  glowing 
countenance  he  spoke  of  the  thunderbolt  in  his 
wonderfully  realistic  piano  poem,  The  Eagle. 
There  had  been  a  lightning-storm  during  the 
afternoon.  Then  he  told  me  how  he  had  found 
water  by  means  of  the  hazel  wand  on  his  New 
Hampshire  farm  —  a  real  happening.  As  I 
went  away  I  could  not  help  remembering  that 
the  final  words  I  should  ever  hear  uttered  by 
this  friend  were  of  bright  fire  and  running  water 
and  dream-music. 

17 


CHAPTER  III 
REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

HIS   IDEAS.     THE   COLOUR   OF   HIS 
MIND 

"Je  dis  ce  que  je  pense" — R.  DE  G. 


THOSE  were  days  marked  by  a  white  stone 
when  arrived  in  the  familiar  yellow  cover  a 
new  book,  with  card  enclosed  from  "Remy  de 
Gourmont,  71,  rue  des  Saints-Peres,  Paris." 
Sometimes  I  received  as  many  as  two  in  a 
year.  But  they  always  found  me  eager  and 
grateful,  did  those  precious  little  volumes  bear 
ing  the  imprint  of  the  Mercure  de  France, 
with  whose  history  the  name  of  De  Gourmont 
is  so  happily  linked.  And  there  were  post-cards 
too  in  his  delicate  handwriting  on  which  were 
traced  sense  and  sentiment;  yes,  this  man  of 
genius  possessed  sentiment,  but  abhorred  sen 
timentality.  His  personal  charm  transpired  in 
a  friendly  salutation  hastily  pencilled.  He 
played  exquisitely  upon  his  intellectual  instru 
ment,  and  knew  the  value  of  time  and  space. 
So  his  post-cards  are  souvenirs  of  his  courtesy, 
and  it  was  through  one,  which  unexpectedly 
18 


REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

fell  from  the  sky  in  1897,  I  began  my  friendship 
with  this  distinguished  French  critic.  His 
sudden  death  in  1915  at  Paris  (he  was  born 
1858),  caused  by  apoplexy,  was  the  heroic  end 
ing  of  a  man  jf  letters.  Like  Flaubert  he  was 
stricken  while  at  his  desk.  I  can  conceive  no 
more  fitting  end  for  a  valiant  soldier  of  litera 
ture.  He  was  a  moral  hero  and  the  victim  of 
his  prolonged  technical  heroism. 

De  Gourmont  was  incomparable.  Thought, 
not  action,  was  his  chosen  sphere,  but  ranging 
up  and  down  the  vague  and  vast  territory  of 
ideas  he  encountered  countless  cerebral  ad 
ventures;  the  most  dangerous  of  all.  An  aris 
tocrat  born,  he  was,  nevertheless,  a  convinced 
democrat.  The  latch  was  always  lifted  on  the 
front  door  of  his  ivory  tower.  He  did  live  in 
a  certain  sense  a  cloistered  existence,  a  Bene 
dictine  of  arts  and  letters;  but  he  was  not,  as 
has  been  said,  a  sour  hermit  nursing  morose 
fancies  in  solitude.  De  Gourmont,  true  pagan, 
enjoyed  the  gifts  the  gods  provide,  and  had, 
despite  the  dualism  of  his  nature,  an  epicurean 
soul.  But  of  a  complexity.  He  never  sympa 
thised  with  the  disproportionate  fuss  raised  by 
the  metaphysicians  about  Instinct  and  Intel 
ligence,  yet  his  own  magnificent  cerebral  ap 
paratus  was  a  battle-field  over  which  swept  the 
opposing  hosts  of  Instinct  and  Intelligence,  and 
in  a  half-hundred  volumes  the  history  of  this 
conflict  is  faithfully  set  down.  As  personal  as 
Maurice  Barres,  without  his  egoism,  as  subtle 


REMY  DE   GOURMONT 

as  Anatole  France,  De  Gourmont  saw  life 
steadier  and  broader  than  either  of  these  two 
contemporaries.  He  was  one  who  said  "vast 
things  simply."  He  was  the  profoundest  phi 
losopher  of  the  three,  and  never,  after  his  be 
ginnings,  exhibited  a  trace  of  the  dilettante. 
Life  soon  became  something  more  than  a  mere 
spectacle  for  him.  He  was  a  meliorist  in  theory 
and  practice,  though  he  asserted  that  Christi 
anity,  an  Oriental-born  religion,  has  not  become 
spiritually  acclimated  among  Occidental  peoples. 
But  he  missed  its  consoling  function;  religion, 
the  poetry  of  the  poor,  never  had  for  him  the 
prime  significance  that  it  had  for  William 
James;  a  legend,  vague,  vast,  and  delicious. 

Old  frontiers  have  disappeared  in  science  and 
art  and  literature.  We  have  Maeterlinck,  a 
poet  writing  of  bees,  Poincare,  a  mathematician 
opening  our  eyes  to  the  mystic  gulfs  of  space; 
solid  matters  resolved  into  mist,  and  the  law 
of  gravitation  questioned.  The  new  horizons 
beckon  ardent  youth  bent  on  conquering  the 
secrets  of  life.  And  there  are  more  false  beacon- 
lights  than  true.  But  if  this  is  an  age  of  special 
ists  a  man  occasionally  emerges  who  contra 
dicts  the  formula.  De  Gourmont  was  at  base 
a  poet;  also  a  dramatist,  novelist,  raconteur, 
man  of  science,  critic,  moralist  of  erudition,  and, 
lastly,  a  philosopher.  Both  formidable  and  be 
wildering  were  his  accomplishments.  He  is  a 
poet  in  his  Hieroglyphes,  Oraisons  mauvaises, 
Le  Livre  des  Litanies,  Les  Saintes  du  Paradis, 

20 


REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

Simone,  Divertissements  —  his  last  appearance 
in  singing  robes  (1914);  he  is  a  raconteur  — 
and  such  tales  —  in  Histoires  magiques,  Prose 
moroses,  Le  Pelerin  du  silence,  D'un  Pays  loin- 
tain,  Couleurs;  a  novelist  in  Merle tte  —  his 
first  book  —  Sixtine,  Le  Fantome,  les  Chevaux 
de  Diomede,  Le  Songe  d'une  Femme,  Une  Nuit 
au  Luxembourg,  Un  Cceur  virginal;  dramatist 
in  Theodat,  Phenissa,  Le  vieux  Roi,  Lilith;  as 
master  critic  of  the  aesthetics  of  the  French 
language  his  supremacy  is  indisputable;  it  is 
hardly  necessary  to  refer  here  to  Le  Livre  des 
Masques,  in  two  volumes,  the  five  volumes  of 
Promenades  litteraires,  the  three  of  Promenades 
philosophiques;  as  moralist  he  has  signed  such 
works  as  1'Idealisme,  La  Culture  des  Idees,  Le 
Chemin  de  Velours;  historian  and  humanist, 
he  has  given  us  Le  Latin  mystique;  grammarian 
and  philologist,  he  displays  his  learning  in  Le 
Probleme  du  Style,  and  Esthetique  de  la  Langue 
francaise,  and  incidentally  flays  an  unhappy 
pedagogue  who  proposed  to  impart  the  secret 
of  style  in  twenty  lessons.  He  edited  many 
classics  of  French  literature. 

His  chief  contribution  to  science,  apart  from 
his  botanical  and  entomological  researches,  is 
Physique  de  1'Amour,  in  which  he  reveals  him 
self  as  a  patient,  thorough  observer  in  an  al 
most  new  country.  And  what  shall  we  say  to 
his  incursions  into  the  actual,  into  the  field 
of  politics,  sociology  and  hourly  happenings 
of  Paris  life;  his  Epilogues  (three  volumes), 

21 


REMY  DE   GOURMONT 

Dialogues  des  Amateurs,  the  collected  pages 
from  his  monthly  contributions  to  Mercure 
de  France?  Nothing  human  was  alien  to  him, 
nor  inhuman,  for  he  rejected  as  quite  meaning 
less  the  latter  vocable,  as  he  rejected  such  cliches 
as  "organic  and  inorganic/'  Years  before  we 
heard  of  a  pluralistic  universe  De  Gourmont 
was  a  pragmatist,  though  an  idealist  in  his 
conception  of  the  world  as  a  personal  picture. 
Intensely  interested  in  ideas,  as  he  was  in  words, 
he  might  have  fulfilled  Lord  Acton's  wish  that 
some  one  would  write  a  History  of  Ideas.  At 
the  time  of  his  death  the  French  thinker  was 
composing  a  work  entitled  La  Physique  des 
Mceurs,  in  which  he  contemplated  a  demonstra 
tion  of  his  law  of  intellectual  constancy. 

A  spiritual  cosmopolitan,  he  was  like  most 
Frenchmen  an  ardent  patriot.  The  little 
squabble  in  the  early  eighties  over  a  skit  of  his, 
Le  Jou-jou  —  patriotisme  (1883),  cost  him  his 
post  at  the  National  Library  in  Paris.  As  a 
philosopher  he  deprecated  war;  as  a  man,  though 
too  old  to  fight,  he  urged  his  countrymen  to 
victory,  as  may  be  noted  in  his  last  book,  Pen 
dant  1'Orage  (1916).  But  the  philosopher 
persists  in  such  a  sorrowful  sentence  as:  "In 
the  tragedy  of  man  peace  is  but  an  entr'acte." 
To  show  his  mental  balance  at  a  time  when 
literary  men,  artists,  and  even  philosophers, 
indulged  in  unseemly  abuse,  we  read  in  Juge- 
ments  his  calm  admission  that  the  war  has 
not  destroyed  for  him  the  intellectual  values 
22 


REMY  DE   GOURMONT 

of  Goethe,  Schopenhauer,  or  Nietzsche.  He 
owes  much  to  their  thought  as  they  owed  much 
to  French  thought;  Goethe  has  said  as  much; 
and  of  Voltaire  and  Chamfort,  Schopenhauer 
was  a  disciple.  Without  being  a  practical  mu 
sician,  De  Gourmont  was  a  lover  of  Beethoven 
and  Wagner.  He  paid  his  compliments  to 
Remain  Rolland,  whose  style,  both  chalky 
and  mucilaginous,  he  dislikes  in  that  overrated 
and  spun-out  series  Jean-Christophe.  Another 
little  volume,  La  Belgique  litteraire,  was  pub 
lished  in  1915,  which,  while  it  contains  noth 
ing  particularly  new  about  Georges  Roden- 
bach,  Emile  Verhaeren,  Van  Lerberghe,  Camille 
Lemonnier,  and  Maurice  Maeterlinck,  is  ex 
cellent  reading.  The  French  critic  was  also 
editor  of  the  Revue  des  Idees,  and  judging  from 
the  bibliography  compiled  by  Pierre  de  Querlon 
as  long  ago  as  1903,  he  was  a  collaborator  of 
numerous  magazines.  He  wrote  on  Emerson, 
English  humour,  or  Thomas  a  Kempis  with 
the  same  facility  as  he  dissected  the  mystic 
Latin  writers  of  the  early  centuries  after  Christ. 
Indeed,  such  versatility  was  viewed  askance  by 
the  plodding  crowd  of  college  professors,  his 
general  adversaries.  But  his  erudition  could 
not  be  challenged ;  only  two  other  men  matched 
his  scholarship,  Anatole  France  and  the  late 
Marcel  Schwob.  And  we  have  only  skimmed 
the  surface  of  his  accomplishments.  Remy  de 
Gourmont  is  the  Admirable  Crichton  of  French 
letters. 

23 


REMY  DE   GOURMONT 


II 

Prodigious  incoherence  might  be  reasonably 
expected  from  this  diversity  of  interests,  yet 
the  result  is  quite  the  reverse.  The  artist 
in  this  complicated  man  banished  confusion. 
He  has  told  us  that  because  of  the  diversity 
of  his  aptitudes  man  is  distinguished  from  his 
fellow  animals,  and  the  variety  in  his  labours  is 
a  proof  positive  of  his  superiority  to  such  fellow 
critics  as  the  mentally  constipated  Brunetiere, 
the  impressionistic  Anatole  France,  the  agile 
and  graceful  Lemaitre,  and  the  pedantic  philis- 
tine  Faguet.  But  if  De  Gourmont  always  at 
tains  clarity  with  no  loss  of  depth,  he  sometimes 
mixes  his  genres;  that  is,  the  poet  peeps  out 
in  his  reports  of  the  psychic  life  of  insects,  as 
the  philosopher  lords  it  over  the  pages  of  his 
fiction.  A  mystic  betimes,  he  is  a  crystal-clear 
thinker.  And  consider  the  catholicity  evinced 
in  Le  Livre  des  Masques.  He  wrote  of  such 
widely  diverging  talents  as  Maeterlinck,  Mal- 
larme,  Villiers  de  1'Isle  Adam,  and  Paul  Adam; 
of  Henri  de  Regnier  and  Jules  Renard;  of 
Huysmans  and  Jules  Laforgue;  the  mysticism 
of  Francis  Poictevin's  style  and  the  imagery  of 
Saint-Pol-Roux  he  defined,  and  he  displays  an 
understanding  of  the  first  symbolist  poet,  Arthur 
Rimbaud,  while  disliking  the  personality  of  that 
abnormal  youth.  But  why  recite  this  litany  of 
new  talent  literally  made  visible  and  vocal  by 
24 


REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

our  critic?  It  is  a  pleasure  to  record  the  fact 
that  most  of  his  swans  remained  swans  and 
did  not  degenerate  into  tame  geese.  In  this 
book  he  shows  himself  a  profound  psychologist. 

Insatiably  curious,  he  yet  contrived  to  drive 
his  chimeras  in  double  harness  and  safely.  His 
best  fiction  is  Sixtine  and  Une  Nuit  au  Luxem 
bourg,  if  fiction  they  may  be  called.  Never 
will  their  author  be  registered  among  best 
sellers.  Sixtine  deals  with  the  adventures  of 
a  masculine  brain.  Ideas  are  the  hero.  In 
Un  Cceur  virginal  we  touch  earth,  fleshly  and 
spiritually.  This  story  shocked  its  readers.  It 
may  be  considered  as  a  sequel  to  Physique  de 
P  Amour.  It  shows  mankind  as  a  gigantic 
insect  indulging  in  the  same  apparently  blind 
pursuit  of  sex  sensation  as  a  beetle,  and  also 
shows  us  the  " female  of  our  species"  endowed 
with  less  capacity  for  modesty  than  the  lady 
mole,  the  most  chaste  of  all  animals.  Discon 
certing,  too,  is  the  psychology  of  the  heroine's 
virginal  soul,  not,  however,  cynical;  cynicism  is 
the  irony  of  vice,  and  De  Gourmont  is  never 
cynical.  But  a  master  of  irony. 

Une  Nuit  au  Luxembourg  has  been  done 
into  English.  It  handles  with  delicacy  and 
frankness  themes  that  in  the  hands  of  a  lesser 
artist  would  be  banished  as  brutal  and  blasphe 
mous.  The  author  knows  that  all  our  felicity 
is  founded  on  a  compromise  between  the  dream 
and  reality,  and  for  that  reason  while  he  signals 
the  illusion  he  never  mocks  it;  he  is  too  much  an 
25 


REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

idealist.  In  the  elaborately  carved  cups  of  his 
tales,  foaming  over  with  exquisite  perfumes  and 
nectar,  there  lurks  the  bitter  drop  of  truth.  He 
could  never  have  said  with  Proudhon  that 
woman  is  the  desolation  of  the  just;  for  him 
woman  is  often  an  obsession.  Yet,  captain  of 
his  instincts,  he  sees  her  justly;  he  is  not  sub 
dued  by  sex.  With  a  gesture  he  destroys  the 
sentimental  scaffolding  of  the  sensualist  and 
marches  on  to  new  intellectual  conquests. 

In  Lilith,  an  Adamitic  Morality,  he  reveals 
his  Talmudic  lore.  The  first  wife  of  our  common 
ancestor  is  a  beautiful  hell-hag,  the  accomplice 
of  Satan  in  the  corruption  of  the  human  race. 
Thus  mediaeval  play  is  epical  in  its  Rabelaisian 
plainness  of  speech.  Perhaps  the  Manichean  in 
De  Gourmont  fabricated  its  revolting  images. 
He  had  traversed  the  Baudelairian  steppes  of 
blasphemy  and  black  pessimism;  Baudelaire, 
a  poet  who  was  a  great  critic.  Odi  profanum 
vulgus !  was  De  Gourmont's  motto,  but  his  soul 
was  responsive  to  so  many  contacts  that  he 
emerged,  as  Barres  emerged,  a  citizen  of  the 
world.  Anarchy  as  a  working  philosophy  did 
not  long  content  him,  although  he  never  relin 
quished  his  detached  attitude  of  proud  indi 
vidualism.  He  saw  through  the  sentimental 
equality  of  J.-J.  Rousseau.  Rousseau  it  was 
who  said  that  thinking  man  was  a  depraved 
animal.  Perhaps  he  was  not  far  from  the  truth. 
Man  is  an  affective  animal  more  interested  in 
the  immediate  testimony  of  his  senses  than  in 
26 


REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

his  intellectual  processes.  His  metaphysic  may 
be  but  the  reverberation  of  his  sensations  on 
the  shore  of  his  subliminal  self,  the  echo  of  the 
sounding  shell  he  calls  his  soul.  And  our  critic 
had  his  scientific  studies  to  console  him  for  the 
inevitable  sterility  of  soul  that  follows  egoism 
and  a  barren  debauch  of  the  sensations.  He 
did  not  tarry  long  in  the  valley  of  excess.  His 
artistic  sensibility  was  his  saviour. 

Without  being  a  dogmatist,  De  Gourmont 
was  an  antagonist  of  absolutism.  A  determinist, 
(which  may  be  dogmatism  a  rebours),  a  rela 
tivist,  he  holds  that  mankind  is  not  a  specially 
favoured  species  of  the  animal  scale;  thought 
is  only  an  accident,  possibly  the  result  of  rich 
nutrition.  An  automaton,  man  has  no  free 
will,  but  it  is  better  for  him  to  imagine  that  he 
has;  it  is  a  sounder  working  hypothesis  for  the 
average  human.  The  universe  had  no  begin 
ning,  it  will  have  no  end.  There  is  no  first  link 
or  last  in  the  chain  of  causality.  Everything 
must  submit  to  the  law  of  causality;  to  explain 
a  blade  of  grass  we  must  dismount  the  stars. 
Nevertheless,  De  Gourmont  no  more  than 
Renan,  had  the  mania  of  certitude.  Humbly 
he  interrogates  the  sphinx.  There  are  no  iso 
lated  phenomena  in  time  or  space.  The  mass 
of  matter  is  eternal.  Man  is  an  animal  sub 
mitting  to  the  same  laws  that  govern  crystals 
or  brutes.  He  is  the  expression  of  matter  in 
physique  and  chemistry.  Repetition  is  the 
law  of  life.  Thought  is  a  physiological  product; 
27 


REMY  DE   GOURMONT 

intelligence  the  secretion  of  matter  and  is  amen 
able  to  the  law  of  causality.  (This  sounds  like 
Taine's  famous  definition  of  virtue  and  vice.) 
And  who  shall  deny  it  all  in  the  psychochem- 
ical  laboratories?  It  is  not  the  rigid  old-fash 
ioned  materialism,  but  a  return  to  the  more 
plastic  theories  of  Lamarck  and  the  trans- 
formism  of  the  Dutch  botanist,  Hugo  de  Vries. 
For  De  Gourmont  the  Darwinian  notion  that 
man  is  at  the  topmost  notch  of  creation  is  as 
antique  and  absurd  as  most  cosmogonies;  in 
deed,  it  is  the  Asiatic  egocentric  idea  of  crea 
tion.  Jacob's  ladder  repainted  in  Darwinian 
symbols.  Voila  1'ennemi!  said  De  Gourmont 
and  put  on  his  controversial  armour.  What 
blows,  what  sudden  deadly  attacks  were  his! 

Quinton  has  demonstrated  to  the  satisfaction 
of  many  scientists  that  bird  life  came  later  on 
our  globe  than  the  primates  from  whom  we  stem. 
The  law  of  thermal  constancy  proves  it  by  the 
interior  temperature  of  birds.  Man  preceded 
the  carnivorous  and  ruminating  animals,  of 
whom  the  bodily  temperature  is  lower  than 
that  of  birds.  The  ants  and  bees  and  beavers 
are  not  a  whit  more  automatic  than  mankind. 
Automatism,  says  Ribot,  is  the  rule.  Thought 
is  not  free,  wrote  William  James,  when  to  it 
an  affirmation  is  added;  then  it  is  but  the 
affirmation  of  a  preference.  "L'homme,"  as 
serts  De  Gourmont,  "  varie  a  Tinfini  sa  mimique. 
Sa  superiorite,  c'est  la  diversite  immense  de  ses 
aptitudes."  He  welcomed  Jules  de  Gaul  tier 
28 


REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

and  his  theory  of  Bovaryisme;  of  the  vital  lie, 
because  of  which  we  pretend  to  be  what  we  are 
not.  That  way  spells  security,  if  not  progress. 
The  idea  of  progress  is  another  necessary  illusion, 
for  it  provokes  a  multiplicity  of  activities.  Our 
so-called  free  will  is  naught  but  the  faculty  of 
making  a  decision  determined  by  a  great  and 
varied  number  of  motives.  As  for  morality, 
it  is  the  outcome  of  tribal  taboos;  the  insect 
and  animal  world  shows  deepest-dyed  im 
morality,  revolting  cruelty,  and  sex  perversity. 
Rabbits  and  earthworms  through  no  fault  of 
their  own  suffer  from  horrible  maladies.  From 
all  of  which  our  critic  deduces  his  law  of  in 
tellectual  constancy.  The  human  brain  since 
prehistoric  times  has  been  neither  diminished 
nor  augmented;  it  has  remained  like  a  sponge, 
which  can  be  dry  or  saturated,  but  still  remains 
itself.  It  is  a  constant.  In  a  favourable  en 
vironment  it  is  enriched.  The  greatest  moment 
in  the  history  of  the  human  family  was  the  dis 
covery  of  fire  by  an  anthropoid  of  genius. 
Prometheus  then  should  be  our  god.  With 
out  him  we  should  have  remained  more  or  less 
simian,  and  probably  of  arboreal  habits. 

Ill 

A  synthetic  brain  is  De  Gourmont's,  a  sower 
of  doubts,  though  not  a  No-Sayer  to  the  uni 
verse.      He    delights    in    challenging    accepted 
"truths."    Of  all  modern  thinkers  a  master  of 
29 


REMY  DE   GOURMONT 

Vues  d'ensembles,  he  smiles  at  the  pretensions, 
usually  a  mask  for  poverty  of  ideas,  of  so-called 
" general  ideas."  He  dissociates  such  conven 
tional  grouping  of  ideas  as  Glory,  Justice, 
Decadence.  The  shining  ribs  of  disillusion 
shine  through  his  psychology;  a  psychology  of 
nuance  and  finesse.  Disillusioning  reflections, 
these.  Not  to  be  put  in  any  philosophical 
pigeonhole,  he  is  as  far  removed  from  the 
eclecticism  of  Victor  Cousin  as  from  the  verbal 
jugglery  and  metaphysical  murmurings  of  Henri 
Bergson.  The  world  is  his  dream;  but  it  is  a 
tangible  dream,  charged  with  meaning,  order, 
logic.  The  truest  reality  is  thought.  Action 
spoils.  (Goethe  said:  "Thought  expands,  ac 
tion  narrows.")  Our  abstract  ideas  are  meta 
physical  idols,  says  Jules  de  Gaultier.  The 
image  of  the  concrete  is  De  Gourmont's  touch 
stone.  Theophile  Gautier  declared  that  he  was 
a  man  for  whom  the  visible  world  existed.  He 
misjudged  his  capacity  for  apprehending  reality. 
The  human  brain,  excellent  instrument  in  a 
priori  combinations  is  inept  at  perceiving  real 
ities.  The  "  Sultan  of  the  Epithet,"  as  De 
Goncourt  nicknamed  "le  bon  Theo,"  was  not 
the  "  Emperor  of  Thought,"  according  to  Henry 
James,  and  for  him  it  was  a  romantic  fiction 
spun  in  the  rich  web  of  his  fancy.  A  vaster, 
greyer  world  is  adumbrated  in  the  books  of  De 
Gourmont.  He  never  allowed  symbolism  to 
deform  his  representation  of  sober,  every-day 
life.  He  pictured  the  future  domain  of  art  and 
30 


REMY  DE   GOURMONT 

ideas  as  a  fair  and  shining  landscape  no  longer 
a  series  of  little  gardens  with  high  walls.  A 
hater  of  formulas,  sects,  schools,  he  teaches 
that  the  capital  crime  of  the  artist,  the  writer, 
the  thinker,  is  conformity.  (Yet  how  serenely 
this  critic  swims  in  classic  currents!)  The  art 
ist's  work  should  reflect  his  personality,  a 
magnified  reflection.  He  must  create  his  own 
aesthetic.  There  are  no  schools,  only  individu 
als.  And  of  consistency  he  might  have  said 
that  it  is  oftener  a  mule  than  a  jewel. 

Sceptical  in  all  matters,  though  never  the 
fascinating  sophist  that  is  Anatole  France,  De 
Gourmont  criticised  the  thirty-six  dramatic 
situations,  reducing  the  number  to  four.  Man 
as  centre  in  relation  to  himself;  in  relation  to 
other  men;  in  relation  to  the  other  sex;  in 
relation  to  God,  or  Nature.  His  ecclesiastical 
fond  may  be  recognised  in  Le  Chemin  de 
Velours  with  its  sympathetic  exposition  of 
Jesuit  doctrine,  and  the  acuity  of  its  judgments 
on  Pascal  and  the  Jansenists.  The  latter  sec 
tion  is  as  an  illuminating  foot-note  to  the  history 
of  Port-Royal  by  Sainte-Beuve.  The  younger 
critic  has  the  supple  intellect  of  the  supplest- 
minded  Jesuit.  His  bias  toward  the  order  is 
unmistakable.  There  are  few  books  I  reread 
with  more  pleasure  than  this  Path  of  Velvet. 
Certain  passages  in  it  are  as  silky  and  sonorous 
as  the  sound  of  Eugene  Ysaye's  violin. 

The  colour  of  De  Gourmont's  mind  is  stained 
by  his  artistic  sensibility.  A  maker  of  images, 


REMY  DE   GOURMONT 

his  vocabulary  astounding  as  befits  both  a  poet 
and  philologist,  one  avid  of  beautiful  words, 
has  variety.  The  temper  of  his  mind  is  tolerant, 
a  quality  that  has  informed  the  finer  intellects 
of  France  since  Montaigne.  His  literary  equip 
ment  is  unusual.  A  style  as  brilliant,  sinuous, 
and  personal  as  his  thought;  flexible  or  massive, 
continent  or  coloured,  he  discourses  at  ease  in 
all  the  gamuts  and  modes  major,  minor,  and 
mixed.  A  swift,  weighty  style,  the  style  of  a 
Latinist;  a  classic,  not  a  romantic  style.  His 
formal  sense  is  admirable.  The  tenderness  of 
Anatole  France  is  absent,  except  in  his  verse, 
which  is  less  spontaneous  than  volitional.  A 
pioneer  in  new  aesthetic  pastures,  De  Gourmont 
is  a  poet  for  poets.  He  has  virtuosity,  though 
the  gift  of  tears  nature  —  possibly  jealous  be 
cause  of  her  prodigality  —  has  denied  him. 
But  in  the  curves  of  his  overarching  intellect 
there  may  be  found  wit,  gaiety,  humour,  the 
Gallic  attributes,  allied  with  poetic  fancy,  pro 
fundity  of  thought,  and  a  many-sided  compre 
hension  of  life,  art,  and  letters.  He  is  in  the 
best  tradition  of  French  criticism  only  more 
j  versatile  than  either  Sainte-Beuve  or  Taine; 
as  versatile  as  Doctor  Brandes  or  Arthur  Symons, 
and  that  is  saying  much.  With  Anatole  France 
he  could  have  exclaimed:  "The  longer  I  con 
template  human  life,  the  more  I  believe  that 
we  must  give  it,  for  witnesses  and  judges,  Irony 
and  Pity.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  IV 
ARTZIBASHEF 


ONCE  upon  a  time  Maurice  Maeterlinck 
wrote:  " Whereas,  it  is  far  away  from  blood 
shed,  battle-cry,  and  sword- thrust  that  the 
lives  of  most  of  us  flow  on,  and  the  tears  of 
men  are  silent  to-day,  and  invisible,  and  al 
most  spiritual.  ..."  This  is  a  plea  for  his 
own  spiritualised  art,  in  which  sensations  are 
attenuated,  and  emotions  within  emotions,  the 
shadow  of  the  primal  emotions,  are  spun  into 
crepuscular  shapes.  But  literature  refused  to 
follow  the  example  of  the  Belgian  dreamer, 
and  since  the  advent  of  the  new  century  there 
has  been  a  recrudescence  of  violence,  a  melo 
dramatic  violence,  that  must  be  disconcerting 
to  Maeterlinck. 

It  is  particularly  the  case  with  Russian 
poetry,  drama,  and  fiction.  That  vast  land  of 
promise  and  disillusionment  is  become  a  try 
ing-out  place  for  the  theories  and  speculations 
of  western  Europe;  no  other  nation  responds 
so  sensitively  to  the  vibrations  of  the  Time- 
Spirit,  no  other  literature  reflects  with  such 
clearness  the  fluctuations  of  contemporary 
33 


ARTZIBASHEF 

thought  and  sensibility.  The  Slav  is  the  most 
emotional  among  living  peoples. 

Not  that  mysticism  is  missing;  indeed,  it  is 
the  key-note  of  much  Russian  literature;  but 
it  was  the  clash  of  events;  the  march  of  ideas 
which  precipitated  young  Russia  into  the  ex 
pression  of  revolt,  pessimism,  and  its  usual 
concomitant,  materialism.  There  were  blood 
shed,  battle-cries,  and  sword-thrusts,  and  tears, 
tangible,  not  invisible,  in  the  uprising  of  ten 
years  ago.  The  four  great  masters,  Gogol, 
Dostoievsky,  Turgenev,  and  Tolstoy,  still  ruled 
the  minds  of  the  intellectuals,  but  a  younger 
element  was  the  yeast  in  the  new  fermenta 
tion. 

Tchekov,  with  his  epical  ennui,  with  his  tales 
of  mean,  colourless  lives,  Gorky  and  his  disin 
herited  barefoot  brigade,  the  dramatic  Andreiev, 
the  mystic  Sologub,  and  Kuprin,  Zensky,  Kus- 
min,  Ivanov,  Ropshin,  Zaitzefl,  Chapygin,  Sera- 
nmovitch  (I  select  a  few  of  the  romancers)  —  not 
to  mention  such  poets  as  Block,  Reminsov,  and 
Ivanov  —  are  the  men  who  are  fighting  under 
various  banners  but  always  for  complete  free 
dom. 

Little  more  than  a  decade  has  passed  since 
the  appearance  of  a  young  man  named  Michael 
Artzibashef  who,  without  any  preliminary  blar 
ing  of  trumpets,  has  taken  the  centre  of  the 
stage  and  still  holds  it.  He  is  as  Slavic  as  Dos 
toievsky,  more  pessimistic  than  Tolstoy,  though 
not  the  supreme  artist  that  was  Turgenev. 
34 


ARTZIBASHEF 

Of  Gogol's  overwhelming  humour  he  has  not 
a  trace;  instead,  a  corroding  irony  which  eats 
into  the  very  vitals  of  faith  in  all  things  human. 
Gorky,  despite  his  " bitter"  nickname,  is  an 
incorrigible  optimist  compared  with  Artziba- 
shef.  One  sports  with  Nietzsche,  the  other  not 
only  swears  by  Max  S timer,  but  some  of  his 
characters  are  Stirnerism  incarnate.  His  chosen 
field  in  society  is  the  portrayal  of  the  middle- 
class  and  proletarian. 

To  Andre  Villard,  his  friend  and  one  of  his 
translators,  the  new  Russian  novelist  told 
something  of  his  life,  a  life  colourless,  dreary, 
bare  of  dramatic  events.  Born  in  a  small  town 
in  southern  Russia  (1878),  Michael  Artzibashef 
is  of  Tatar,  French,  Georgian,  and  Polish  blood. 
His  great-grandfather  on  the  maternal  side  was 
the  Polish  patriot  Kosciusko.  His  father,  a 
retired  officer,  was  a  small  landowner.  In  the 
lad  there  developed  the  seeds  of  tuberculosis. 
His  youth  was  a  wretched  one.  At  school  he 
was  unhappy  because  of  its  horrors  —  he  has 
written  of  them  in  his  first  story,  Pasha  Tuma- 
now  —  and  he  drifted  from  one  thing  to  another 
till  he  wrote  for  a  literary  weekly  in  the  provinces 
founded  by  a  certain  MiroliubofT,  to  whom  he 
ascribes  his  first  lift  in  life.  Fellow  contributors 
at  the  time  were  Maxim  Gorky,  Leonid  An- 
dreiev,  Kuprin,  and  other  young  men  who, 
like  Artzibashef,  have  since  "  arrived." 

His  first  successful  tale  was  Ivan  Lande.  It 
brought  him  recognition.  This  was  in  1904. 
35 


ARTZIBASHEF 

But  the  year  before  he  had  finished  Sanine,  his 
masterpiece,  though  it  did  not  see  publication 
till  1908.  This  was  three  years  after  the  revolu 
tion  of  1905,  so  that  those  critics  were  astray 
who  spoke  of  the  book  as  a  naturally  pessimistic 
reaction  from  the  fruitless  uprising.  Pessimism 
was  born  in  the  bones  of  the  author  and  he 
needed  no  external  stimulus  to  provok^  such 
a  realistic  study  as  Sanine.  Whether SJeMs 
happier,  healthier,  whether  he  has  married  and 
raised  a  family,  we  know  not.  Personal  as  his 
stories  are  said  to  be,  their  art  renders  them 
objective. 

The  world  over  Sanine  has  been  translated. 
It  is  a  significant  book,  and  incorporates  the 
aspirations  of  many  young  men  and  women  in 
the  Russian  Empire.  It  was  not  printed  at 
first  because  of  the  censorship,  and  in  Germany 
it  had  to  battle  for  its  life. 

It  is  not  only  written  from  the  standpoint  of 
a  professed  immoralist,  but  the  Russian  censor 
declared  it  pernicious  because  of  its  "  defama 
tion  of  youth,"  its  suicidal  doctrine,  its  de 
pressing  atmosphere.  The  sex  element,  too, 
has  aroused  indignant  protests  from  the  clergy, 
from  the  press,  from  society  itself. 

In  reply  to  his  critics  Artzibashef  has  denied 
libelling  the  younger  generation.  "  Sanine,"  he 
says,  "is  the  apology  for  individualism:  the 
hero  of  the  novel  is  a  type.  In  its  pure  form 
this  type  is  still  new  and  rare,  but  its  spirit  is 
in  every  frank,  bold,  and  strong  representative 
36 


ARTZIBASHEF 

of  the  new  Russia."  And  then  he  adds  his  own 
protest  against  the  imitators  of  Sanine,  who 
"  flooded  the  literary  world  with  pornographic 
writings."  Now,  whatever  else  it  may  be, 
Sanine  is  not  pornographic,  though  I  shall  not 
pretend  to  say  that  its  influence  has  been  harm 
less.  We  should  not  forget  Werther  and  the 
trail  of  sentimental  suicides  that  followed  its 
publication.  But  Sanine  is  fashioned  of  sterner 
stuff  than  Goethe's  romance,  and  if  it  be  "  dan 
gerous,"  then  all  the  better. 

Test  all  things,  and  remember  that  living 
itself  is  a  dangerous  affair.  Never  has  the 
world  needed  precepts  of  daring,  courage,  in 
dividualism  more  than  in  this  age  of  cowardly 
self-seeking,  and  the  sleek  promises  of  altruism 
and  its  soulless  well-being.  Sanine  is  a  call  to 
arms  for  individualists.  And  recall  the  Russian 
saying:  Self-conceit  is  the  salt  of  life. 

II 

That  Artzibashef  denies  the  influence  of 
Nietzsche  while  admitting  his  indebtedness  to 
Nietzsche's  forerunner,  Max  Stirner,  need  not 
particularly  concern  us.  There  are  evidences 
scattered  throughout  the  pages  of  Sanine  that 
prove  a  close  study  of  Nietzsche  and  his  idealistic 
superman.  Artist  as  is  Artzibashef,  he  has 
densely  spun  into  the  fabric  of  his  work  the 
ideas  that  control  his  characters,  and  whether 
these  ideas  are  called  moral  or  immoral  does 
37 


ARTZIBASHEF 

not  matter.  The  chief  thing  is  whether  they 
are  propulsive  forces  in  the  destiny  of  his 
puppets. 

That  he  paints  directly  from  life  is  evident: 
he  tells  us  that  in  him  is  the  debris  of  a 
painter  compelled  by  poverty  to  relinquish  his 
ambitions  because  he  had  not  money  enough 
to  buy  paper,  pencil,  colour.  Such  a  realistic 
brush  has  seldom  been  wielded  as  the  brush 
of  Artzibashef.  I  may  make  one  exception, 
that  of  J.-K.  Huysmans.  The  Frenchman  is 
the  greater  artist,  the  greater  master  of  his 
material,  and,  as  Havelock  Ellis  puts  it,  the 
master  of  "the  in  tensest  vision  of  the  modern 
world";  but  Huysmans  lacks  the  all-embrac 
ing  sympathy,  the  tremulous  pity,  the  love  of 
suffering  mankind  that  distinguishes  the  young 
Russian  novelist,  a  love  that  is  blended  with 
an  appalling  distrust,  nay,  hatred  of  life.  Both 
men  prefer  the  sordid,  disagreeable,  even  the 
vilest  aspects  of  life. 

The  general  ideas  of  Artzibashef  are  few  and 
profound.  The  leading  motive  of  his  symphony 
is  as  old  as  Ecclesiastes :  "The  thing  that  hath 
been,  it  is  that  which  shall  be."  It  is  not  orig 
inal,  this  theme,  and  it  is  as  eternal  as  medi 
ocrity;  but  it  has  been  orchestrated  anew  by 
Artzibashef,  who,  like  his  fellow  countrymen, 
Tschaikovsky  and  Moussorgsky,  contrives  to 
reveal  to  us,  if  no  hidden  angles  of  the  truth, 
at  least  its  illusion  in  terms  of  terror,  anguish, 
and  deadly  nausea  produced  by  mere  existence. 

38 


ARTZIBASHEF 

With  such  poisoned  roots  Artzibashef  s  tree  of 
life  must  soon  be  blasted.  His  intellectual  in- 
differentism  to  all  that  constitutes  the  solace 
and  bravery  of  our  daily  experience  is  almost 
pathological.  The  aura  of  sadism  hovers  about 
some  of  his  men.  After  reading  Artzibashef 
you  wonder  that  the  question,  "Is  life  worth 
living?"  will  ever  be  answered  in  the  affirmative 
among  these  humans,  who,  as  old  Homer  says, 
hasten  hellward  from  their  birth. 

The  corollary  to  this  leading  motive  is  the 
absolute  futility  of  action.  A  paralysis  of  the 
will  overtakes  his  characters,  the  penalty  of 
their  torturing  introspection.  It  was  Turgenev, 
in  an  essay  on  Hamlet,  who  declared  that  the 
Russian  character  is  composed  of  Hamlet-like 
traits.  Man  is  the  only  animal  that  cannot 
live  in  the  present;  a  Norwegian  philosopher, 
Soren  Kierkegaard,  has  said  that  he  lives  for 
ward,  thinks  backward;  he  aspires  to  the 
future.  An  idealist,  even  when  close  to  the 
gorilla,  is  doomed  to  disillusionment.  He  dis 
counts  to-morrow. 

Russian  youth  has  not  always  the  courage 
of  its  chimera,  though  it  fraternises  with  the 
phantasmagoria  of  its  soul.  Its  Golden  Street 
soon  becomes  choked  with  fog.  The  political 
and  social  conditions  of  the  country  must  stifle 
individualism,  else  why  should  Artzibashef 
write  with  such  savage  intensity?  His  pen  is 
the  pendulum  that  has  swung  away  from  the 
sentimental  brotherhood  of  man  as  exemplified 
39 


ARTZIBASHEF 

in  Dostoievsky,  and  from  the  religious  mania 
of  Tolstoy  to  the  opposite  extreme,  individual 
anarchy.  Where  there  is  repression  there  is 
rebellion.  Max  Stirner  represents  the  individ 
ualism  which  found  its  vent  in  the  Prussia  of 
1848;  Nietzsche  the  reaction  from  the  Prussia 
of  1870;  Artzibashef  forestalled  the  result  of 
the  1905  insurrection  in  Russia. 

His  prophetic  soul  needed  no  proof;  he  knew 
that  his  people,  the  students  and  intellectuals, 
would  be  crushed.  The  desire  of  the  clod  for 
the  cloud  was  extinguished.  Happiness  is  an 
eternal  hoax.  Only  children  believe  in  life. 
The  last  call  of  the  devil's  dinner-bell  has 
sounded.  In  the  scenery  of  the  sky  there  is 
only  mirage.  The  moonlit  air  is  a  ruse  of  that 
wily  old  serpent,  nature,  to  arouse  romance  in 
the  breast  of  youth  and  urge  a  repetition  of 
the  life  processes.  We  graze  Schopenhauer, 
overhear  Leopardi,  but  the  Preacher  has  the 
mightiest  voice.  Naturally,  the  novelist  says 
none  of  these  things  outright.  The  phrases 
are  mine,  but  he  points  the  moral  in  a  way  that 
is  all  his  own. 

What,  then,  is  the  remedy  for  the  ills  of  this 
life?  Is  its  misery  immediable?  Why  must 
mankind  go  on  living  if  the  burden  is  so  great? 
Even  with  wealth  comes  ennui  or  disease,  and 
no  matter  how  brilliant  we  may  live,  we  must 
all  die  alone.  Pascal  said  this  better.  In  several 
of  his  death-bed  scenes  the  dying  men  of  Artzi 
bashef  curse  their  parents,  mock  at  religion, 
40 


ARTZIBASHEF 

and  —  here  is  a  novel  nuance  —  abuse  their 
intellectual  leaders.  Semenow  the  student, 
who  appears  in  several  of  the  stories,  abuses 
Marx  and  Nietzsche.  Of  what  use  are  these 
thinkers  to  a  man  about  to  depart  from  the 
world?  It  is  the  revolt  of  stark  humanity 
from  the  illusions  of  brotherly  love,  from  the 
chiefest  illusion  —  self. 

Artzibashef  offers  no  magic  draft  of  oblivion 
to  his  sufferers.  With  a  vivid  style  that  recalls 
the  Tolstoy  of  The  Death  of  Ivan  Illitch  he 
shows  us  old  and  young  wrestling  with  the  de 
stroyer,  their  souls  emptied  of  all  earthly  hopes 
save  one.  Shall  I  live  ?  Not  God's  will  be  done, 
not  the  roseate  dream  of  a  future  life,  only  — 
why  must  I  die?  though  the  poor  devil  is  sub 
merged  in  the  very  swamp  of  life.  But  life, 
life,  even  a  horrible  hell  for  eternity,  rather 
than  annihilation!  In  the  portrayal  of  these 
damned  creatures  Artzibashef  is  elemental.  He 
recalls  both  Dante  and  Dostoievsky. 

He  has  told  us  that  he  owes  much  to  Tolstoy 
(also  to  Goethe,  Hugo,  Dostoievsky,  and  much 
to  Tchekov),  but  his  characters  are  usually  fail 
ures  when  following  the  tenets  of  Tolstoy,  the 
great  moralist  and  expounder  of  "non-resis 
tance."  He  simply  explodes  the  torpedo  of  truth 
under  the  ark  of  socialism.  This  may  be  noted 
in  Ivan  Lande  —  now  in  the  English  volume  en 
titled  The  Millionaire  —  where  we  see  step  by 
step  the  decadence  of  a  beautiful  soul  obsessed 
by  the  love  of  his  fellows. 


ARTZIBASHEF 

It  is  in  the  key  of  Tolstoy,  but  the  moral 
is  startling.  Not  thus  can  you  save  your  soul. 
Max  Stirner  is  to  the  fore.  Don't  turn  your 
other  cheek  if  one  has  been  smitten,  but  smite 
the  smiter,  and  heartily.  However,  naught 
avails,  you  must  die,  and  die  like  a  dog,  a  star, 
or  a  flower.  Better  universal  suicide.  Success 
comes  only  to  the  unfortunate.  And  so  we 
swing  back  to  Eduard  von  Hartmann,  who,  in 
his  philosophy  of  the  unconscious,  counsels  the 
same  thing.  (A  ferocious  advocate  of  pessimism 
and  a  disciple  of  Arthur  Schopenhauer,  by  name 
Mai'nlander,  preached  world  destruction  through 
race  suicide.) 

But  all  these  pessimists  seem  well  fed  and 
happy  when  compared  to  the  nihilists  of  Artzi- 
bashef.  He  portrays  every  stage  of  disillusion 
ment  with  a  glacial  calmness.  Not  even  anni 
hilation  is  worth  the  trouble  of  a  despairing 
gesture.  Cui  bono?  Revolutionist  or  royalist 
-  your  career  is,  if  you  but  dare  break  the 
conspiracy  of  silence  —  a  burden  or  a  sorrow. 
Happiness  is  only  a  word.  Love  a  brief  sensa 
tion.  Death  a  certainty.  For  such  nihilism  we 
must  go  to  the  jungles  of  Asia,  where  in  a  life 
long  silence,  some  fanatic  fatidically  stares  at 
his  navel,  the  circular  symbol  of  eternity. 


42 


ARTZIBASHEF 


III 

But  if  there  is  no  philosophical  balm  in  Gil- 
ead,  there  is  the  world  of  the  five  senses,  and 
a  glorious  world  it  may  prove  if  you  have  only 
the  health,  courage,  and  contempt  for  the 
Chinese  wall  with  which  man  has  surrounded 
his  instincts.  There  are  no  laws,  except  to  be 
broken,  no  conventions  that  cannot  be  shattered. 
There  is  the  blue  sky,  brother,  and  the  air  on 
the  heath,  brother!  Drop  the  impedimenta 
and  lead  a  free,  roving  life.  How  the  world 
would  wag  without  work  no  one  tells  us.  Not 
didactic,  the  novelist  disdains  to  draw  a  moral. 

There  is  much  S timer,  some  Nietzsche  in 
Sanine,  who  is  a  handsome  young  chap,  a  giant, 
and  a  " blond  barbarian."  It  is  the  story  of 
the  return  of  the  native  to  his  home  in  a  small 
town.  He  finds  his  mother  as  he  left  her,  older, 
but  as  narrow  as  ever,  and  his  sister  Lydia,  one 
of  the  most  charming  girls  in  Russian  fiction. 
Sanine  is  surprised  to  note  her  development. 
He  admires  her  —  too  much  so  for  our  Western 
taste.  However,  there  is  something  monstrous 
in  the  moral  and  mental  make-up  of  this  hero, 
who  is  no  hero.  He  may  be  a  type,  but  I  don't 
believe  in  types;  there  are  only  humans.  His 
motto  might  be:  What's  the  difference?  He 
is  passive,  not  with  the  fatalism  of  Oblomov, 
Gontcharov's  hero;  not  With  the  apathy  of 
Charles  B  ovary,  or  the  timid  passivity  of  Fred- 
43 


ARTZIBASHEF 

eric  Moreau;  he  displays  an  indifference  to 
the  trivial  things  of  life  that  makes  him  seem 
an  idler  on  the  scene. 

When  the  time  arrives  for  action  he  is  no 
skulker.  His  sister  has  been  ruined  by  a  frivo 
lous  officer  in  garrison,  and  she  attempts  suicide. 
Her  brother  rescues  her,  not  heroically,  but 
philosophically,  and  shows  her  the  folly  of  be 
lieving  in  words.  Ruined !  Very  well,  marry 
and  forget!  However,  he  drives  the  officer 
to  suicide  by  publicly  disgracing  him.  He  re 
fuses  a  duel,  punches  his  head,  and  the  silly 
soldier  with  his  silly  code  of  honour  blows  out 
his  brains.  A  passive  role  is  Sanine's  in  the 
composition  of  this  elaborate  canvas,  the  sur 
face  simplicity  of  which  deceives  us  as  to  its 
polyphonic  complexity.  He  remains  in  the 
background  while  about  him  play  the  little 
destinies  of  little  souls.  Yet  he  is  always  the 
fulcrum  for  a  climax.  I  have  not  yet  made 
up  my  mind  whether  Sanine  is  a  great  man  or 
a  thorough  scoundrel.  Perhaps  both. 

A  temperamental  and  imaginative  writer  is 
Artzibashef.  I  first  read  him  (1911)  in  French, 
the  translation  of  Jacques  Povolozky,  and  his 
style  recalled,  at  times,  that  of  Turgenev,  pos 
sibly  because  of  the  language.  In  the  German 
translation  he  is  not  so  appealing;  again  per 
haps  of  the  difference  in  the  tongues.  As  I 
can't  read  Russian,  I  am  forced  to  fall  back  on 
translations,  and  they  seldom  give  an  idea  of 
personal  rhythm,  unless  it  be  a  Turgenev  trans- 
44 


ARTZIBASHEF 

lating  into  Russian  the  Three  Tales  of  his  friend 
Flaubert. 

Nevertheless,  through  the  veil  of  a  foreign 
speech  the  genius  of  Artzibashef  shines  like  a 
crimson  sun  in  a  mist.  Of  course,  we  miss  the 
caressing  cadence  and  rich  sonorousness  of  the 
organ- toned  Russian  language:  The  English 
versions  are  excellent,  though,  naturally  enough, 
occasionally  chastened  and  abbreviated.  I 
must  protest  here  against  the  omission  of  a 
chapter  in  Breaking  Point  which  is  a  k*ey  to 
the  ending  of  the  book.  I  mean  the  chapter 
in  which  is  related  the  reason  why  the  wealthy 
drunkard  goes  to  the  monastery,  there  to  end 
his  days.  Years  ago  Mr.  Howells  said  that  we 
could  never  write  of  America  as  Dostoievsky 
did  of  Russia,  and  it  was  true  enough  at  the 
time;  nor,  would  we  ever  tolerate  the  nudities 
of  certain  Gallic  novelists.  Well,  we  have,  and 
I  am  fain  to  believe  that  the  tragic  issues  of 
American  life  should  be  given  fuller  expression, 
and  with  the  same  sincerity  as  Artzibashef's, 
whose  strength  is  his  sincerity,  whose  sincerity 
is  a  form  of  his  genius. 

The  very  air  of  America  makes  for  optimism; 
our  land  of  milk  and  honey  may  never  produce 
such  prophets  of  pessimism  as  Artzibashef,  un 
less  conditions  change.  But  the  lesson  for  our 
novelists  is  the  courageous  manner  —  and  ar 
tistic,  too  —  with  which  the  Russian  pursues 
the  naked  soul  of  mankind  and  dissects  it.  He 
notes,  being  a  psychologist  as  well  as  a  painter, 
45 


ARTZIBASHEF 

the  exquisite  recoil  of  the  cerebral  cells  upon 
themselves  which  we  call  consciousness.  Pro 
foundly  human  in  his  sympathies,  without  being 
in  the  least  sentimental,  he  paints  full-length 
portraits  of  men  and  women  with  a  flowing 
brush  and  a  fine  sense  of  character  values.  But 
he  will  never  bend  the  bow  of  Balzac. 

Vladimir  Sanine  is  not  his  only  successful 
portrait.  In  the  book  there  are  several  persons: 
the  disgraced  student  Yourii,  who  is  self-com 
placent  to  the  point  of  morbidity;  his  lovely 
sister,  and  her  betrothed.  The  officers  are 
excellently  delineated  and  differentiated,  while 
the  girls,  Sina  Karsavina  and  her  friend  the 
teacher,  are  extremely  attractive. 

Karsavina  is  a  veracious  personality.  The 
poor  little  homeless  Hebrew  who  desires  light 
on  the  mystery  of  life  could  not  be  bettered  by 
Dostoievsky;  for  that  matter  Artzibashef  is 
partially  indebted  to  Dostoievsky  for  certain 
traits  of  Ivan  Lande  —  who  is  evidently  pat 
terned  from  Prince  Myshkin  in  The  Idiot. 
Wherever  Sanine  passes,  trouble  follows.  He 
is  looked  on  as  possessing  the  evil  eye,  yet  he 
does  little  but  lounge  about,  drink  hard,  and 
make  love  to  pretty  girls.  But  as  he  goes  he 
snuffs  out  ideals  like  candles. 

As  Artzibashef  is  a  born  story-teller,  it  must 
not  be  supposed  that  the  book  is  unrelieved  in 
its  gloom.  There  are  plenty  of  gay  episodes, 
sensational,  even  shocking;  a  picnic,  a  shoot 
ing-party,  and  pastorals  done  in  a  way  which 


ARTZIBASHEF 

would  have  extorted  the  admiration  of  Tur- 
genev.  Thomas  Hardy  has  done  no  better  in 
his  peasant  life.  There  are  various  gatherings, 
chiefly  convivial,  a  meeting  of  would-be  in 
tellectuals  for  self-improvement  —  related  with 
blasting  irony  —  and  drinking  festivals  which 
are  masterly  in  their  sense  of  reality;  add  to 
these  pages  of  nature  descriptions,  landscapes, 
pictures  of  the  earth  in  all  seasons  and  guises, 
revealing  a  passionate  love  of  the  soil  which 
is  truly  Russian.  You  fairly  smell  the  frosty 
air  of  his  Winter  days. 

Little  cause  for  astonishment  that  Sanine 
at  its  appearance  provoked  as  much  contro 
versy,  as  much  admiration  and  hatred  as  did 
Fathers  and  Sons  of  Turgenev.  Vladimir 
Sanine  is  not  as  powerful  as  Bazarov  the  anarch 
ist,  but  he  is  a  pendant,  he  is  an  anarch  of  the 
new  order,  neither  a  propagandist  by  the  act, 
but  a  philosophical  anarch  who  lazily  mutters: 
"Let  the  world  wag;  I  don't  care  so  that  it 
minds  its  own  business  and  lets  me  alone."  With 
few  exceptions  most  latter-day  fiction  is  thin, 
papery,  artificial,  compared  with  Artzibashef  s 
rich,  red-blooded  genius. 

I  have  devoted  so  much  attention  to  Sa 
nine  that  little  space  is  left  for  the  other  books, 
though  they  are  all  significant.  Revolutionary 
Tales  contains  a  strong  companion  picture  to 
Sanine,  the  portrait  of  the  metal-worker  Schevyr- 
jov,  who  is  a  revolutionist  in  the  literal  sense. 
His  hunted  life  and  death  arouse  a  terrific  im- 
47 


ARTZIBASHEF 

pression.  The  end  is  almost  operatic.  A  cap 
tivating  little  working  girl  figures  in  one  episode. 
It  may  be  remarked  in  passing  that  Artzibashef 
does  not  paint  for  our  delectation  the  dear  dead 
drabs  of  yesteryear,  nor  yet  the  girl  of  the  street 
who  heroically  brings  bread  to  her  starving 
family  (as  does  Sonia  in  Crime  and  Punish 
ment).  Few  outcasts  of  this  sort  are  to  be 
found  in  his  pages,  and  those  few  are  unflinch 
ingly  etched,  as,  for  example,  the  ladies  in 
The  Millionaire. 

This  story,  which  is  affiliated  in  ideas  with 
Sanine,  is  Tolstoyian  in  the  main  issue,  yet 
disconcertingly  different  in  its  interpretation. 
Wealth,  too,  may  become  an  incitement  to 
self-slaughter  from  sheer  disgust.  The  story 
of  Pasha  Tumanow  is  autobiographical,  and 
registers  his  hatred  of  the  Russian  grammar 
schools  where  suicides  among  the  scholars  are 
anything  but  infrequent.  Morning  Shadows 
relates  the  adventures  of  several  young  people 
who  go  to  Petrograd  to  seek  fame,  but  with 
tragic  conclusions.  The  two  girl  students  end 
badly,  one  a  suicide,  the  other  a  prisoner  of  the 
police  as  an  anarchist  caught  red-handed.  A 
stupefying  narrative  in  its  horrid  realism  and 
sympathetic  handling.  The  doctor  gives  us  a 
picture  of  a  pogrom  in  a  tiny  Russian  province 
town.  You  simply  shudder  at  the  details  of 
the  wretched  Jews  shot  down,  ripped  open, 
maltreated,  and  driven  into  the  wilderness. 
It  is  a  time  for  tears;  though  I  cannot  quite 
48 


ARTZIBASHEF 

believe  in  this  doctor,  who,  while  not  a  Jew, 
so  sympathises  with  them  that  he  lets  die  the 
Chief  of  Police  that  ordered  the  massacre. 
Another  story  of  similar  intensity,  called  Nina 
in  the  English  translation,  fills  us  with  wonder 
that  such  outrages  can  go  unpunished.  But 
I  am  only  interested  in  the  art  of  the  novelist, 
not  in  political  conditions  or  their  causes. 

Perhaps  the  most  touching  story  in  Revolu 
tionary  Tales  is  The  Blood  Stain,  confessedly 
beloved  by  its  author.  Again  we  are  confronted 
by  the  uselessness  of  all  attempts  to  right  in 
justice.  Might  is  right,  ever  was,  ever  will  be. 
Again  the  victims  of  lying  propagandists  and 
the  cruel  law  lie  "on  stretchers,  with  white 
eyes  staring  upward.  In  these  eyes  there  was 
a  look,  a  sad,  questioning  look  of  horror  and 
despair."  Always  despair,  in  life  or  death,  is 
the  portion  of  these  poor.  [This  was  written  in 
1915,  before  the  New  Russia  was  born.  Since 
the  beginning  of  the  war  Artzibashef  has  served 
in  the  field  and  hospitals.  He  has  written 
several  plays,  one  of  which,  War,  has  been 
translated.  It  is  a  terrific  arraignment  of  war. 
His  latest  story,  The  Woman  Standing  in  the 
Midst,  has  not  yet  appeared  here.] 

Without  suggesting  a  rigid  schematology, 
there  is  a  composition  plan  in  his  larger  work 
that  may  be  detected  if  the  reader  is  not  con 
fused  by  the  elliptical  patterns  and  the  massive 
mounds  of  minor  details  in  his  novel  Breaking 
Point.  The  canvas  is  large  and  crowded,  the 
49 


ARTZIBASHEF 

motivation  subtly  managed.  As  is  the  case 
with  his  novels,  the  drama  plays  in  a  provincial 
town,  this  time  on  the  steppes,  where  the  in 
habitants  would  certainly  commit  suicide  if 
the  place  were  half  as  dreary  as  depicted.  Some 
of  them  do  so,  and  you  are  reminded  of  that 
curious,  nervous  disease,  indigenous  to  Siberia, 
named  by  psychiatrists  "myriachit,"  or  the 
epidemic  of  imitation.  A  man,  a  sinister  rascal, 
Naumow,  preaches  the  greyness  and  folly  of 
living,  and  this  "Naumowism"  sets  by  the  ears 
three  or  four  impressionable  young  men  who 
make  their  exit  with  a  bare  bodkin  or  its  equiv 
alent.  Naumow  recalls  a  character  in  The 
Possessed,  also  the  sinister  hero  of  The  Syna 
gogue  of  Satan  by  the  dramatic  Polish  writer 
Stanislaw  Przybyszewski.  To  give  us  a  central 
point  the  " chorus"  of  the  novel  is  a  little  student 
who  resembles  a  goldfinch,  and  has  a  birdlike 
way  of  piping  about  matters  philosophical. 

There  are  oceans  of  talk  throughout  the 
novels,  talks  about  death.  Really,  you  wonder 
how  the  Russians  contrive  to  live  at  all  till  you 
meet  them  and  discover  what  normal  people 
they  are.  (It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  art 
must  contain  as  an  element  of  success  a  slight 
deformation  of  facts.)  The  student  watches 
the  comedy  and  tragedy  of  the  town,  his  brain 
flaming  with  noble  ideas  for  the  regeneration  of 
mankind !  Alas !  Naumow  bids  him  reflect 
on  the  uselessness  of  suffering  from  self-priva 
tion  so  that  some  proletarian  family  may  eat 
50 


ARTZIBASHEF 

roast  larks  in  the  thirtieth  century.  Eventually 
he  succumbs  to  the  contagion  of  resemblance, 
takes  to  drink,  and  hangs  himself  to  a  nail  in 
the  wall,  his  torn  gum  shoes,  clinging  to  his 
feet,  faithful  to  the  last  —  they,  Dickens-like, 
are  shown  from  the  start. 

There  is  a  nihilistic  doctor  —  the  most  viable 
character  of  all  about  whose  head  hovers  the 
aura  of  apoplexy  —  a  particularly  fascinating  ac 
tress,  an  interesting  consumptive,  two  wretched 
girls  betrayed  by  a  young  painter  (a  Sanine 
type,  i.e.,  Max  Stirnerism  in  action),  while 
the  officers  of  the  garrison  and  club  life  are  cun 
ningly  pictured.  A  wealthy  manufacturer,  with 
the  hallmarks  of  Mr.  Rogozhin  in  Dostoievsky's 
The  Idiot,  makes  an  awful  noise  till  he  luckily 
vanishes  in  a  monastery.  Suicide,  rapine,  dis 
order,  drunkenness,  and  boredom  permeate 
nearly  every  page.  Breaking  Point  is  the  most 
poignant  and  intolerable  book  I  ever  read.  It 
is  the  prose  complement  of  Tschaikovsky's  so- 
called  Suicide  Symphony.  Browning  is  reversed. 
Here  the  devil  is  in  heaven.  All's  wrong  in  the 
world !  Yet  it  compels  reflection  and  reread 
ing.  Why  ? 

Because,  like  all  of  his  writings,  it  is  inevi 
table,  and  granting  the  exaggeration  inherent  in 
the  nature  of  the  subject,  it  is  lifelike,  though 
its  philosophy  is  dangerously  depressing.  The 
little  city  of  the  steppes  is  the  cemetery  of  the 
Seven  Sorrows.  However,  in  it,  as  in  Sanine, 
there  is  many  an  oasis  of  consolation  where  san- 


ARTZIBASHEF 

ity  and  cheerfulness  and  normal  humans  may 
be  enjoyed.  But  I  am  loath  to  believe  that 
young  Russia,  Holy  Russia,  as  the  mystagogues 
call  her,  has  lost  her  central  grip  on  the  things 
that  most  count;  above  all,  on  religious  faith. 
Then  needs  must  she  pray  as  prayed  Des  Es- 
seintes  in  Huysmans's  novel  A  Rebours:  "Take 
pity,  0  Lord,  on  the  Christian  who  doubts,  on 
the  sceptic  who  desires  to  believe,  on  the  con 
vict  of  life  who  embarks  alone,  in  the  night, 
beneath  a  sky  no  longer  lit  by  the  consoling 
beacons  of  ancient  faith." 


CHAPTER  V 
A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 


IN  company  with  other  distinguished  men 
who  have  passed  away  during  the  progress  of 
the  war,  the  loss  of  Henry  James  was  passably 
chronicled.  News  from  the  various  battle-fields 
took  precedence  over  the  death  of  a  mere  man 
of  literary  genius.  This  was  to  be  expected. 
Nor  need  the  fact  be  disguised  that  his  secession 
from  American  citizenship  may  have  increased 
the  coolness  which  prevailed,  still  prevails,  when 
the  name  of  Mr.  James  is  mentioned  in  print. 
More  English  than  the  English,  he  only  prac 
tised  what  he  preached,  though  tardily  in  the 
matter  of  his  British  naturalisation.  That  he 
did  not  find  all  the  perfections  in  his  native 
land  is  a  personal  matter;  but  that  he  should 
be  neglected  in  favour  of  mediocrity  is  simply 
the  penalty  a  great  artist  pays  for  his  devotion 
to  art.  There  is  no  need  of  indignation  in  the 
matter.  Time  rights  such  critical  wrongs. 
Consider  the  case  of  Stendhal.  The  fiction  of 
Henry  James  is  for  the  future. 

James  seceded  years  ago  from  the  English 
traditions,  from  Fielding,  Dickens,  Thackeray, 

53 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

and  George  Eliot.  The  Wings  of  a  Dove,  The 
Ambassadors,  The  Golden  Bowl  are  fictions 
that  will  influence  future  novelists.  In  our  own 
days  we  see  what  a  power  James  has  been;  a 
subtle  breath  on  the  waters  of  creation;  Paul 
Bourget,  Edith  Wharton,  even  Joseph  Conrad, 
and  many  minor  English  novelists.  His  later 
work,  say,  beginning  with  The  Tragic  Muse, 
is  the  prose  equivalent  of  the  seven  arts  in  a 
revolutionary  ferment.  A  marked  tendency 
in  the  new  movements  is  to  throw  overboard 
superfluous  technical  baggage.  The  James 
novel  is  one  of  grand  simplifications. 

As  the  symphony  was  modified  by  Liszt  into 
the  symphonic  poem  and  later  emerged  in  the 
shape  of  the  tone-poem  by  Richard  Strauss,  so 
the  novel  of  manners  evolved  from  Flaubert's 
Sentimental  Education,  which,  despite  its 
"  heavenly  length/'  contains  in  solution  all  that 
the  newer  men  have  accomplished.  Zola  pat 
terned  after  it  in  the  prodigious  Rougon- 
Macquart  series;  Daudet  found  therein  the 
impressionism  of  his  Sapho  anticipated;  Mau 
passant  and  Huysmans  delved  patiently  and 
practised  characteristic  variations.  Flaubert  is 
the  father  of  realism  as  he  is  part  parent  of  sym 
bolism.  His  excessive  preoccupation  with  style 
and  his  attaching  esoteric  significance  to  words 
sound  the  note  of  symbolism.  Now  Henry 
James  disliked  Sentimental  Education  —  like 
other  great  critics  he  had  his  blind  side  —  yet 
he  did  not  fail  to  benefit  by  the  radical  formal 
54 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

changes  introduced  by  Flaubert,  changes  as 
revolutionary  as  those  of  Wagner  in  the  music- 
drama.  I  call  the  later  James  novel  a  simplifica 
tion.  All  the  conventional  chapter  endings  are 
dispensed  with;  many  are  suspended  cadences. 
The  accustomed  and  thrice-barren  modulations 
from  event  to  event  are  swept  away;  unpre 
pared  dissonances  are  of  continual  occurrence. 
There  is  no  descriptive  padding  —  that  bane  of 
second-class  writers;  nor  are  we  informed  at 
every  speech  of  the  name  of  a  character.  This 
elliptical  method  James  absorbed  from  Flaubert, 
while  his  sometime  oblique  psychology  is  partly 
derived  from  Stendhal;  indeed,  without  Sten 
dhal  both  Meredith  and  James  would  have  been 
sadly  shorn  of  their  psychological  splendour. 
Nor  is  the  shadow  of  Turgenev  missing,  not  to 
mention  that  of  Jane  Austen. 

Possibly  the  famous  "  third  manner "  of 
James  was  the  result  of  his  resorting  to  dicta 
tion;  the  pen  inhibits  where  speech  does  not. 
These  things  make  difficult  reading  for  a  public 
accustomed  to  the  hypnotic  passes  of  successful 
fiction-mongers.  In  James  nothing  is  fore 
stalled,  nothing  is  obvious,  one  is  for  ever  turn 
ing  the  curve  of  the  unexpected.  The  actual 
story  may  be  discouraging  in  its  bareness,  yet 
the  situations  are  seldom  fantastic.  (The  Turn 
of  the  Screw  is  an  exception.)  You  rub  your 
eyes  as  you  finish;  for  with  all  your  credulity, 
painful  in  its  intensity,  you  have  assisted  at  a 
pictorial  evocation;  both  picture  and  evoca- 
55 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

tion  reveal  magic  in  their  misty  attenuations. 
And  there  is  ever  the  triumph  of  poetic  feeling 
over  banal  sentiment.  The  portraiture  in 
Milly  Theale  and  Maggie  Verver  is  clairvoyant. 
Milly's  life  is  a  miracle,  her  ending,  art  super 
lative.  The  Wings  of  a  Dove  is  filled  with  the 
faintly  audible  tread  of  destiny  behind  the 
arras  of  life.  The  reverberations  are  almost 
microphonic  with  here  and  there  a  crescendo 
or  a  climax.  The  spiritual  string  music  of  Henry 
James  is  more  thrilling  to  the  educated  ear 
than  the  sound  of  the  big  drum  and  the  blaring 
of  trumpets.  The  implacable  curiosity  of  the 
novelist  concerning  causes  that  do  not  seem 
final  has  been  amply  dealt  with  by  Mr.  Brownell. 
The  question  whether  his  story  is  worth  the 
telling  is  a  critical  impertinence  too  often  ut 
tered  ;  what  most  concerns  us  now  in  the  James 
case  is  his  manner,  not  his  matter.  All  the 
rest  is  life. 

As  far  as  his  middle  period  his  manner  is 
limpidity  itself;  the  later  style  is  a  jungle  of 
inversions,  suspensions,  elisions,  repetitions, 
echoes,  transpositions,  transformations,  neol 
ogisms,  in  which  the  heads  of  young  adjectives 
despairingly  gaze  from  afar  at  the  verbs  which 
come  thundering  at  the  close  of  sentences  leagues 
long.  It  is  bewildering,  but  more  bewildering 
is  this  peculiarly  individual  style  when  draught 
ed  into  smooth  journalistic  prose.  Nothing 
remains.  Henry  James  has  not  spoken.  His 
dissonances  cannot  be  resolved  except  in  the 
56 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

terms  of  his  own  matchless  art.  His  meanings 
evaporate  when  phrased  in  our  vernacular. 
This  may  prove  a  lot  of  negating  things,  or  it 
may  not.  Why  prose  should  lag  behind  its 
sister  arts  I  can't  say;  possibly  because  every 
pothouse  politician  is  supposed  to  speak  it. 
For  that  matter  any  one  who  has  dipped  into 
the  well  of  English  undented,  seventeenth-cen 
tury  literature,  must  realise  that  nowadays  we 
write  a  parlous  prose.  However,  it  is  not  a 
stately  prose  that  James  essayed.  The  son  of 
a  metaphysician  and  moralist  —  the  writings  of 
Henry  James,  the  elder,  are  far  from  negligible 
—  the  brother  of  the  greatest  American  psy 
chologist,  the  late  William  James  of  brilliant 
memory,  it  need  hardly  be  added  that  char 
acter  problems  are  of  more  interest  to  this 
novelist  than  the  external  qualities  of  rhetorical 
sonority,  or  the  fascination  of  glowing  surfaces. 
You  can  no  more  read  aloud  a  page  of  James 
than  you  can  read  aloud  De  Goncourt.  For 
Flaubert,  who  modelled  his  magnificent  prose 
harmonies  on  the  Old  Testament,  Shakespeare, 
Bossuet,  and  Chateaubriand,  the  final  test  of 
noble  prose  is  the  audible  reading  thereof. 
Flaubert  called  it  "  spouting."  The  James  prose 
appeals  rather  to  the  inner  ear.  Nuance  and 
overtones  not  dazzling  tropical  hues  or  rhythmi 
cal  variety.  Henry  James  is  a  law  unto  himself. 
His  novels  may  be  a  precursor  of  the  books  our 
grandchildren  will  enjoy  when  the  hurly-burly 
of  noisy  adventure,  cheap  historical  vapidities, 
57 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

and  still  cheaper  drawing-room  struttings  shall 
have  vanished.  (But,  like  the  poor,  the  stupid 
reader  we  shall  always  have  with  us.)  In  the 
fiction  of  the  future  a  more  complete  synthesis 
will  be  attained.  An  illuminating  essay  by 
Arthur  Symons  places  George  Meredith  among 
the  decadents,  the  murderers  of  their  mother 
tongue,  the  men  who  shatter  syntax  to  serve 
their  artistic  ends.  Henry  James  belonged  to 
this  group  for  a  longer  time  than  the  majority 
of  his  critics  suspected.  In  his  ruthless  disre 
gard  of  the  niceties  and  conventionalities  of 
sentence-structure  I  see  the  outcome  of  his 
dictation.  Yet  no  matter  how  crabbed  and  in 
volved  is  his  page,  a  character  always  emerges 
from  the  smoke  of  his  muttered  enchantments. 
The  chief  fault  is  not  his  obscurity  (his  prose, 
like  the  prose  in  Browning's  Sordello,  is  packed 
with  too  many  meanings),  but  that  his  char 
acter  always  speaks  in  purest  Jacobean.  So 
do  the  people  in  Balzac's  crowded,  electric 
world.  So  the  men  and  women  of  Dickens 
and  Meredith.  It  is  the  fault  —  or  virtue  — 
of  all  subjective  genius;  however,  not  a  fault 
or  virtue  of  Flaubert  or  Turgenev  or  Tolstoy. 
All  in  all,  Henry  James  is  a  distinctly  American 
novelist,  a  psychologist  of  extraordinary  power 
and  divination.  He  has  pinned  to  paper  the 
soul  of  the  cosmopolitan.  The  obsession  of  the 
moral  problem  that  we  feel  in  Hawthorne  is 
not  missing.  Be  his  manner  never  so  cryptic, 
his  deep-veined  humanity  may  be  felt  by  those 
58 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

who  read  him  aright.  His  Americans  abroad 
suffer  a  deep-sea  change;  a  complete  gamut  of 
achieved  sensibility  divides  Daisy  Miller  from 
Maggie  Verver.  Henry  James  is  a  faithful 
Secretary  to  Society  —  the  phrase  is  Balzac's 
-  to  the  American  afloat  from  his  native  moor 
ing  as  well  as  at  home.  And  his  exquisite  nota 
tions  are  the  glory  of  English  fiction. 

II 

Before  me  lies  an  autograph  letter  from 
Henry  James  to  his  friend  Doctor  Rice.  It  is 
dated  December  26,  1904,  and  the  address  21 
East  Eleventh  Street.  It  thus  concludes:  "I 
am  not  one  of  'The  Bostonians/  but  was  born  in 
this  city  April  15, 1843.  Believe  me,  truly  yours, 
Henry  James."  Although  he  died  a  naturalised 
Englishman,  there  seems  to  be  some  confusion 
as  to  his  birthplace  in  the  minds  of  his  English 
critics.  In  Ford  Madox  Hueffer's  critical  study, 
Henry  James,  we  read  on  page  95  that  the  life 
of  James  "began  in  New  England  in  1843."  He 
was  born  in  America  in  1843,  then  a  land  where 
culture  was  rare !  That  delightful  condescension 
in  foreigners  is  still  extant.  Now  this  isn't  such 
a  serious  matter,  for  Henry  James  was  a  citizen 
of  the  world;  but  the  imputation  of  a  New  Eng 
land  birthplace  does  matter,  because  it  allows 
the  English  critic  —  and  how  many  others  ?  —  to 
perform  variations  on  the  theme  of  Puritanism, 
the  Puritanism  of  his  art.  James  as  a  tem- 
59 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

peramental  Puritan  —  one  is  forced  to  capitalise 
the  unhappy  word !  Apart  from  the  fact  that 
there  is  less  Puritanism  in  New  England  than 
in  the  Middle  West,  James  is  not  a  Puritan. 
He  does  not  possess  the  famous  New  England 
conscience.  He  would  have  been  the  first  to 
repudiate  the  notion.  For  him  the  Puritan 
temperament  has  a  " faintly  acrid  perfume." 
To  ascribe  to  Puritanism  the  seven  deadly  vir 
tues  and  refinement,  sensibility,  intellectuality, 
is  a  common  enough  mistake.  James  never 
made  that  mistake.  He  knew  that  all  the  good 
things  of  life  are  not  in  the  exclusive  possession 
of  the  Puritans.  He  must  not  be  identified 
with  the  case  he  studies.  Strictly  speaking, 
while  he  was  on  the  side  of  the  angels,  like  all 
great  artists,  he  is  not  a  moralist;  indeed,  he 
is  our  first  great  "immoralist,"  a  term  that  has 
supplanted  the  old-fashioned  amoralist.  And 
he  wrote  the  most  unmoral  short  story  in  the 
English  language,  one  that  also  sets  the  spine 
trilling  because  of  its  supernatural  element  as 
never  did  Poe,  or  De  Maupassant. 

Another  venerable  witticism,  which  has 
achieved  the  pathos  of  distance,  was  made  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago  by  George  Moore. 
Mr.  Moore  said:  " Henry  James  went  to  France 
and  read  Turgenev.  W.  D.  Howells  stayed  at 
home  and  read  Henry  James."  To  lend  poign 
ancy  to  this  mild  epigram  Mr.  Hueffer  mis 
quotes  it,  substituting  the  name  of  De  Mau 
passant  for  Turgenev's.  A  rather  uncanny 
60 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

combination  —  Henry  and  Guy.  A  still  more 
aged  " wheeze"  bobs  up  in  the  pages  of  Mr. 
Hueffer.  Need  we  say  that  it  recites  the  an 
cient  saw  about  William  James,  the  fictionist, 
and  his  brother  Henry,  the  psychologist.  None 
of  these  things  is  in  the  least  true.  With  the 
prudishness  and  peanut  piety  of  puritanism 
Henry  James  has  nothing  in  common.  He  did 
not  alone  read  Turgenev,  he  met  him  and  wrote 
of  him  with  more  sympathy  and  understanding 
than  he  did  of  Flaubert  or  Baudelaire;  and  Mr. 
Howells  never  wrote  a  page  that  resembled 
either  the  Russian's  or  the  American's  fiction. 
Furthermore,  James  is  a  masterly  psychologist 
and  a  tale-teller.  To  the  credit  of  his  latest 
English  critics  this  is  acknowledged,  and  gen 
erously. 

Mr.  Hueffer  is  an  accomplished  craftsman 
in  many  literary  fields,  he  writes  with  authority, 
though  too  often  in  a  superlative  key.  But 
how  James  would  have  winced  when  he  read 
in  Mr.  Hueffer's  book  that  he  is  or  was  "the 
greatest  of  living  men."  This  surely  is  a  planet- 
struck  phrase.  The  Hueffer  study  is  stuffed 
with  startling  things.  He  bangs  Balzac  over 
the  head.  He  tells  the  truth  about  Flaubert, 
whose  Sentimental  Education  is  an  entire 
Human  Comedy.  He  thinks  ill  of  "big  busi 
ness,"  that  "business  and  whatever  takes 
place  'down- town'  or  in  the  city  is  simply  not 
worth  the  attention  of  any  intelligent  being. 
It  is  a  manner  of  dirty  little  affairs  incom- 
61 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

patently  handled  by  men  of  the  lowest  class  of 
intelligence."  But  all  this  in  a  volume  about 
the  most  serene  and  luminous  intelligence  of 
our  times.  Mr.  Hueffer  also  "goes  for"  James 
as  critic.  He  once  dared  to  couple  the  name 
of  the  "odious"  George  Eliot  with  Flaubert's. 
It  does  rather  take  the  breath  away,  but,  after 
all,  didn't  the  tolerant  and  catholic  critic  who 
was  Henry  James  say  that  no  one  is  constrained 
to  like  any  particular  kind  of  writing?  As  to 
the  "cats  and  monkeys,  monkeys  and  cats  — 
all  human  life  is  there,"  of  The  Madonna  of 
the  Future,  we  need  not  take  the  words  as  a 
final  message;  nor  are  the  other  phrases  quoted: 
"The  soul  is  immortal  certainly  —  if  you've 
got  one,  but  most  people  haven't!  Pleasure 
would  be  right  if  it  were  pleasure  right  through, 
but  it  never  is."  Mr.  Hueffer  says  that  James 
"found  English  people  who  were  just  people 
singularly  nasty,"  and  who  can  say  him  nay 
after  reading  The  Sacred  Fount?  But  he  ends 
on  the  right  note:  "And  for  a  man  to  have 
attained  to  international  rank  with  phrases 
intimately  national  is  the  supreme  achievement 
of  writers  —  a  glory  that  is  reserved  only  for 
the  D antes,  the  Goethes,  and  the  Shakespeares, 
who  none  the  less  remain  supremely  national." 
Neither  Mr.  Hueffer  nor  Miss  West  is  in  doubt 
as  to  the  essential  Americanism  of  Henry  James. 
He  is  almost  as  American  as  Howells,  who  is 
our  Anthony  Trollope,  plus  style  and  vision. 
And  Trollope,  by  the  way,  will  loom  larger  in 
62 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

the  future  despite  his  impersonality  and  micro 
scopic  manner. 

The  James  art  is  Cerebral  Comedy,  par  ex 
cellence.  To  alter  his  own  words,  he  plays  his 
intellectual  instrument  to  perfection.  He  is  a 
portraitist  doubled  by  a  psychologist.  His 
soul  is  not  a  solitary  pool  in  a  midnight  forest, 
but  an  unruffled  lake,  sun-smitten  or  cloud- 
shadowed;  yet  in  whose  depths  there  is  a  mov 
ing  mass  of  exquisite  living  things.  His  pages 
reverberate  with  the  under  hum  of  humanity. 
We  may  not  exactly  say  of  him  as  Hazlitt  said 
of  Walter  Scott:  "His  works,  taken  altogether, 
are  almost  like  a  new  edition  of  human  nature." 
But  we  can  follow  with  the  coda  of  that  same 
dictum:  "This  is  indeed  to  be  an  author." 
Many  more  than  the  dozen  superior  persons 
mentioned  by  Huysmans  enjoy  the  James 
novels.  His  swans  are  not  always  immaculate, 
but  they  are  not  "swans  of  the  cesspool,"  to 
quote  Landor.  There  is  never  an  odour  of 
leaking  gas  in  his  premises,  as  he  once  remarked 
of  the  D'Annunzio  fiction.  He  has  the  cosmo 
politan  soul.  There  is  no  slouch  in  his  spiritual 
gait.  Like  Renan,  he  abhorred  the  "horrible 
mania  of  certitude"  to  be  found  in  the  writing 
of  his  realistic  contemporaries.  He  does  not 
always  dot  the  "i's"  of  his  irony,  a  subrisive 
irony.  But  the  spiritual  antennae  which  he 
puts  forth  so  tentatively  always  touch  real 
things,  not  conjectural.  And  what  tactile  sense 
he  boasts.  He  peeps  into  the  glowing  core  of 

63 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

emotion,  but  seldom  describes  it.  His  ears  are 
for  overtones,  not  the  brassy  harmonies  of  the 
obvious,  of  truths,  flat  and  flexible.  Yet  what 
novelist  has  kept  his  ear  so  close  to  quotidian 
happenings,  and  with  what  dignity  and  charm 
in  his  crumbling  cadences?  Not  even  that 
virtuoso  of  the  ugly,  Huysmans,  than  whom 
no  writer  of  the  past  century  ever  "  rendered " 
surfaces  into  such  impeccable  truth,  with  such 
implacable  ferocity,  is  as  clairvoyant  as  James. 
Fustian  and  thunder  form  no  part  of  the 
James  stories,  which  are  like  a  vast  whispering 
gallery,  the  dim  reverberations  of  which  fill  the 
listening  ear.  He  is  an  "auditive"  as  well  as  a 
"visualist,"  to  employ  the  precious  classifica 
tion  of  the  psychiatrists.  His  astute  senses 
tell  him  of  a  world  which  we  are  only  beginning 
to  comprehend.  He  is  never  obscure,  never 
recondite;  but,  like  Browning,  he  sends  a 
veritable  multiplex  of  ideas  along  a  single  wire. 
Mr.  Howells  has  rightly  said  of  him  that  it  is 
not  well  to  pursue  the  meanings  of  an  author 
to  the  very  heart  of  darkness.  However,  readers 
as  a  rule  like  their  fiction  served  on  a  shiny 
plate;  above  all,  they  don't  like  a  story  to  be 
gin  in  one  key  and  end  in  another.  If  it's  to 
be  pork  and  molasses  or  "hog  and  hominy" 
(George  Meredith's  words),  then  let  it  be  these 
delectable  dishes  through  every  course.  But 
James  is  ever  in  modulation.  He  tosses  his 
theme  ballwise  in  the  air,  and  while  its  spirals 
spin  and  bathe  in  the  blue  he  weaves  a  web  of 
64 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

gold  and  lace,  and  it  is  marvellously  spun.  He 
is  more  atmospheric  than  linear.  His  theme  is 
shown  from  a  variety  of  angles,  but  the  result 
is  synthetic.  Elizabeth  Luther  Gary  has  pointed 
out  that  he  is  not  a  remorseless  analyst.  He 
does  not  take  the  mechanism  of  his  marionette 
apart,  but  lets  us  examine  it  in  completeness. 
As  a  psychologist  he  stands  midway  between 
Stendhal  and  Turgenev.  He  interprets  feeling, 
rather  than  fact. 

Like  our  sister  planet,  the  moon,  he  has  his 
rhythmic  moments  of  libra tion;  he  then  reveals 
his  other  side,  a  profoundly  human,  emotional 
one.  He  is  not  all  frosty  intellect.  But  he 
holds  in  horror  the  facile  expression  of  the  senti 
ments.  It's  only  too  easy  to  write  for  those  avid 
of  sentimentalism,  or  to  express  what  Thomas 
Huxley  calls  "  sensualistic  caterwauling."  In 
the  large,  generous  curve  of  his  temperament 
there  is  room  for  all  life,  but  not  for  a  lean  or 
lush  statement  of  life.  You  may  read  him  in 
a  state  of  mellow  exasperation,  but  you  cannot 
deny  his  ultimate  sincerity.  There  is  no  lack 
of  substance  in  his  densely  woven  patterns,  for 
patterns  there  are,  though  the  figure  be  difficult 
to  piece  out.  His  route  of  emerald  is  elliptical; 
follow  him  who  dare!  A  "wingy  mystery." 
He  is  all  vision.  He  does  not  always  avoid 
naked  issues.  His  thousand  and  one  char 
acters  are  significantly  vital.  His  is  not  "the 
shadow  land  of  American  fiction";  simply  his 
supreme  tact  of  omission  has  dispensed  with 

65 


A  NOTE  ON  HENRY  JAMES 

the  entire  banal  apparatus  of  fiction  as  com 
monly  practised.  To  use  a  musical  example: 
his  prose  is  like  the  complicated  score  of  some 
latter-day  composer,  and  his  art,  like  music, 
is  a  solvent.  He  discards  lumbering  descrip 
tions,  antique  melodramatics,  set  develop 
ments  and  denouements,  mastodonic  structures. 
The  sharp  savour  of  character  is  omnipresent. 
His  very  pauses  are  eloquent.  He  evokes. 
His  harmonic  tissue  melts  into  remoter  har 
monic  perspectives.  He  composes  in  every 
tonality.  Continuity  of  impression  is  unfail 
ing.  When  reading  him  sympathetically  one 
recalls  the  saying  of  Maurice  Barres:  "For  an 
accomplished  spirit  there  is  but  one  dialogue, 
that  between  our  two  egos  —  the  momentary 
ego  that  we  are  and  the  ideal  one  toward 
which  we  strive."  For  Jacobeans  this  in 
terior  dialogue,  with  its  " secondary  intention" 
marches  like  muted  music  through  the  pages 
of  the  latter  period.  Henry  James  will  always 
be  a  touchstone  for  the  tasteless. 


66 


CHAPTER  VI 
GEORGE  SAND 


Thou   large-brained  woman  and  large-hearted  man,  self- 
called  George  Sand ! 

— MRS.  BROWNING. 


WHO  reads  George  Sand  nowadays?  was 
asked  at  the  time  of  her  centenary  (she  was 
born,  1804;  died,  1876).  Paris  responded  in 
gallant  phrases.  She  was  declared  one  of  the 
glories  of  French  literature.  Nevertheless,  we 
are  more  interested  in  the  woman,  in  her  psy 
chology,  than  in  her  interminable  novels.  The 
reason  is  simple;  her  books  were  built  for  her 
day,  not  to  endure.  She  never  created  a  vital 
character.  Her  men  and  women  are  -bundles 
of  attributes,  neither  flesh  nor  blood  nor  good 
red  melodrama.  She  was  a  wonderful  jour 
nalist,  one  is  tempted  to  say  the  first  of  her 
sex,  and  the  first  feminist.  Mary  Wollstone- 
craft  Godwin  was  a  shriller  propagandist,  yet 
she  accomplished  no  more  for  the  cause  than 
her  French  neighbour,  not  alone  because  she 
didn't  smoke  big  cigars  or  wear  trousers,  but 
on  general  principles.  In  a  word,  Mrs.  Godwin 
didn't  exactly  practise  what  she  preached  and 


GEORGE  SAND 

George  Sand  did.  For  her  there  was  no  talk 
of  getting  the  vote;  her  feminism  was  a  roman 
tic  revolt,  not  economic  or  political  rebellion. 
George  Sand  should  be  enshrined  as  the  patron 
saint  of  female  suffragism.  By  no  means  a  deep 
thinker,  for  she  reflected  as  in  a  mirror  the 
ideas  of  the  intellectual  men  she  met,  she  had 
an  enormous  vogue.  Her  reputation  was  world 
wide. 

We  know  more  about  her  now,  thanks  to 
the  three  volumes  recently  published  by  Vladi 
mir  Karenine  (the  pen-name  of  a  Russian  lady, 
Mme.  Komaroff,  the  daughter  of  Dmitri  Stas- 
sow).  This  writer  has  brought  her  imposing 
work  (thus  far  over  1,700  pages)  down  to  1848, 
and,  as  much  happened  in  the  life  of  her  heroine 
after  that,  we  may  expect  at  least  two  more 
fat  volumes.  Her  curiosity  has  been  insatiable. 
She  has  read  all  the  historical  and  critical  litera 
ture  dealing  with  Sand.  She  has  at  first-hand 
from  friends  and  relatives  facts  hitherto  un 
published,  and  she  is  armed  with  a  library  of 
documents.  More,  she  has  read  and  digested 
the  hundred-odd  stories  of  the  fecund  writer, 
and  actually  analyses  their  plots,  writes  at  length 
of  the  characters,  and  incidentally  throws  light 
on  her  own  intellectual  processes. 

Mme.  Karenine  is  not  a  broad  critic.  She 
is  a  painstaking  historian.  While  some  tales 
of  Sand  are  worth  reading  —  The  Devil's  Pool, 
Letters  of  a  Voyager,  even  Consuelo,  above  all, 
her  autobiography  —  the  rest  is  a  burden  to 
68 


GEORGE  SAND 

the  spirit.  Her  facility  astounds,  and  also 
discourages.  She  confesses  that  with  her  writ 
ing  was  like  the  turning  on  of  a  water-tap,  the 
stream  always  flowed,  a  literary  hydrant. 
Awaken  her  in  the  night  and  she  could  resume 
her  task.  She  was  of  the  centrifugal  tempera 
ment,  hence  the  resultant  shallowness  of  her 
work.  She  had  charm.  She  had  style,  serene, 
flowing,  also  tepid  and  fatuous,  the  style  de 
tested  by  Charles  Baudelaire,  and  admired  by 
Turgenev  and  Renan  and  Lamennais.  Baude 
laire  remarked  of  this  "best  seller"  that  she 
wrote  her  chefs  d'ceuvre  as  if  they  were  letters, 
and  posted  them.  The  "style  coulant,"  praised 
by  bourgeois  critics,  he  abhorred,  as  it  lacked 
accent,  relief,  individuality.  "She  is  the  Prud- 
homme  of  immorality,"  he  said  —  not  a  bad 
definition  —  and  "she  is  stupid,  heavy,  and  a 
chatterer."  She  loves  the  proletarian,  and  her 
sentiment  is  adapted  to  the  intelligent  wife  of 
the  concierge  and  the  sentimental  harlot.  Which 
shows  that  even  such  a  versatile  critic  as  Baude 
laire  had  his  prejudices.  The  sweetness  and 
nobility  of  her  nature  were  recognised  by  all 
her  associates. 

Nietzsche  is  no  less  impolite.  She  derives 
from  Rousseau  —  he  might  have  added  Byron, 
also  —  she  is  false,  artificial,  inflated,  exag 
gerated;  .  .  .  her  style  is  of  a  variegated  wall 
paper  pattern.  She  betrays  her  vulgarity  in 
her  ambition  to  expose  her  generous  feelings. 
She  is,  like  all  the  Romantics,  a  cold,  insufferable 
69 


GEORGE  SAND 

artist.  She  wound  herself  up  like  a  timepiece 
and  —  wrote.  Nietzsche,  like  his  great  master, 
Schopenhauer,  was  never  a  worshipper  of  the 
irresponsible  sex.  And  her  immorality?  Pere 
Didon  said  that  her  books  are  more  immoral 
than  Zola's,  because  more  insidious,  tinted  as 
they  are  with  false  ideas  and  sentiments.  George 
Sand  immoral?  What  bathos!  How  futile 
her  fist-shakings  at  conventional  morality.  As 
well  say  Marie  Corelli  or  Ouida  is  immoral. 
This  literature  of  gush  and  gabble  is  as  dan 
gerous  to  the  morals  of  our  time  as  the  Ibsen 
plays  or  ^Esop's  fables. 

Unreality,  cheap  socialism,  and  sentiment  of 
the  downtrodden  shop  girl  are  the  stigmata 
of  the  Sand  school.  She  has  written  many 
memorable  pages,  many  beautiful  pages;  such 
masters  as  Sainte-Beuve,  Balzac,  Delacroix, 
Flaubert,  Ballanche,  Heine,  Dostoievsky,  and 
Turgenev  have  told  us  so.  Her  idyllic  stories 
are  of  an  indubitable  charm.  But  her  immoral 
ity,  like  her  style,  is  old-fashioned  —  there  is 
a  dating  mark  even  in  immorality,  for  if,  as 
Ibsen  maintained,  all  truths  stale  and  die  after 
two  decades,  how  much  less  life  may  be  allowed 
a  lie?  Your  eternal  verities,  then,  may  be  as 
evanescent  as  last  year's  mist. 

Mme.  Karenine  does  not  belong  to  the  School 
of  Moral  Rehabilitation,  so  prevalent  here  and 
in  England.  She  does  not  spare  her  subject; 
indeed,  makes  out  a  worse  case  than  we  had 
supposed.  She  is  not  a  prude  and,  if  critically 
70 


GEORGE  SAND 

she  is  given  to  discovering  a  masterpiece  under 
every  bush  planted  by  that  indefatigable  gar 
dener,  George  Sand,  she  is  quite  aware  of 
George's  flagrant  behaviour.  The  list  of  lovers 
is  a  longer  one  than  given  by  earlier  biographers. 
Dumas  fils,  a  close  observer  of  the  novelist, 
asserts  that  she  had  no  temperament  at  all, 
thus  corroborating  the  earlier  testimony  of 
Heine.  This  further  complicates  the  problem. 
She  was  not,  then,  a  perverse  pursuer  of  young 
genius,  going  about  seeking  whom  she  could 
devour,  and  indulging  in  what  Mother  Church 
calls  morose  delectation!  A  "cold  devil"  —  a 
la  Felicien  Rops.  I  doubt  this.  Maternal  she 
was.  I  once  described  her  as  a  maternal 
nymphomaniac,  a  metaphysical  Messalina.  She 
presided  at  numerous  artistic  accouchements; 
she  was,  pre-eminently,  the  critical  midwife  to 
many  poets,  pianists,  painters,  composers,  and 
thinkers.  If  she  made  some  of  them  unhappy, 
she  brought  into  the  life  of  others  much  happi 
ness.  Matthew  Arnold  believed  in  her,  so  did 
the  Brownings,  Elizabeth  and  Robert;  George 
Eliot  admired  her;  she,  too,  was  rowing  in  the 
same  kind  of  a  moral  galley,  but  with  heavier 
oars  and  through  the  Sargossian  seas  of  British 
prudery. 

In  contact  with  the  finest  minds  of  her  times, 
George  Sand  was  neither  a  moral  monster  nor 
yet  the  arrant  Bohemian  that  legend  has  fash 
ioned  of  her.  She  was  a  fond  mother,  and  a 
delightful  grandmother.  She  had  the  feather- 


GEORGE  SAND 

bed  temperament,  and  soothed  masculine  nerves 
exacerbated  by  the  cruel  exigencies  of  art. 
Jules  Laforgue  would  have  said  of  her:  Stability, 
thy  name  is  Woman!  She  died  in  the  odour 
of  domestic  sanctity,  mourned  by  her  friends, 
and  the  idol  of  the  literary  world. 

How  account  for  her  uprightness  of  char 
acter,  her  abundant  virtues  —  save  one?  She 
was  as  true  as  the  compass  to  her  friends,  to 
her  family.  Either  she  has  been  slandered  or 
else  she  is  an  anomaly  in  the  moral  world.  In 
either  case  we  need  a  new  transvaluation  of 
morals.  She  was  not  made  of  the  stuff  of  courte 
sans,  she  refused  to  go  to  the  devil.  Like  As- 
pasia,  she  was  an  immoralist.  As  an  artist 
she  could  have  had  social  position.  But  she 
didn't  crave  it;  she  didn't  crave  notoriety; 
paradoxical  as  it  may  sound,  notoriety  was 
thrust  upon  her.  At  Nohant,  her  chateau 
in  Berri,  there  was  usually  a  conglomeration 
of  queer  people:  Socialists,  reformers,  crazy 
dreamers,  artists,  and  poets,  occasionally  work 
ing  men  in  their  blouses.  Of  that  mystic  crew 
Matthew  Arnold  could  have  repeated  his  famous 
"What  a  set!"  which  he  despairingly  uttered 
about  the  Shelley- Godwin  gatherings. 

II 

George   Sand  was  a  normal  woman.     She 
preferred  the  society  of  men;   with  women  she 
was  always  on  her  guard,  a  cat  sleeping  with 
72 


GEORGE  SAND 

one  eye  open.  Her  friendship  with  Mme. 
D'Agoult,  the  elective  affinity  of  Liszt,  soon 
ended.  She  never  summered  in  soft  Sapphic 
seas,  nor  hankered  after  poetic  Leucadian  prom 
ontories.  She  never  did  approvingly  quote  the 
verse  of  Baudelaire  beginning:  "Lo!  the  Les 
bians  their  sterile  sex  advancing."  She  was  a 
woman  from  top  to  toe.  Nor  did  she  indulge 
often  in  casual  gallant  adventures.  Her  affairs 
were  romantic.  With  the  author  of  Carmen 
her  spiritual  thermometer  registered  at  its 
lowest.  She  endured  him  just  eight  days,  and 
Merimee  is  responsible  for  the  tasteless  anecdote 
which  he  tells  as  his  reason  for  leaving  her.  He 
saw  her  of  a  cold  morning  making  the  fire,  her 
head  in  curl-papers,  and  attired  in  an  old  dress 
ing-gown.  No  passion  could  survive  that 
shock,  and  selfish  Prosper  at  once  grew  frigid. 
A  French  expression  may  suit  George:  She 
always  had  her  heart  "en  compote."  And  she 
was  incorrigibly  naive  —  they  called  it  "Ideal 
ism"  in  those  days  —  witness  her  affair  with 
Doctor  Pagello  in  Venice.  The  first  handsome 
Italian  she  met  she  fell  in  love  with  and  allowed 
poor  sick  Alfred  de  Musset  to  return  to  Paris 
alone,  although  she  had  promised  his  mother 
to  guard  him  carefully.  He  was  suffering  from 
an  attack  of  delirium  tremens  in  Venice.  He 
had  said  of  himself:  "I  am  not  tender,  I  am 
excessive."  He  was.  His  name,  unlike  Keats's, 
is  writ  in  absinthe,  not  water.  Nevertheless, 
you  can  reread  him. 

73 


GEORGE  SAND 

But  the  separation  didn't  kill  him.  He  was 
twenty-two,  George  six  years  older.  Their 
affair  struggled  along  about  six  months.  Al 
fred  consoled  himself  with  Rachel  and  many 
others.  He  was  more  poet  than  artist,  more 
artist  than  man;  and  a  pretty  poor  specimen 
of  a  man.  He  wrote  the  history  of  his  love 
for  George.  She  followed  suit.  This  sphinx 
of  the  ink-well  was  a  journalist  born.  She 
used  her  lovers  for  "copy";  and  for  that  mat 
ter  Byron  and  Goethe  did  the  same.  George 
always  discoursed  of  her  thirst  for  the  "in 
finite."  It  was  only  a  species  of  moral  indiges 
tion.  Every  romance  ended  in  disillusionment. 
The  one  with  Chopin  lasted  the  longest,  nearly 
ten  years.  She  first  met  the  Pole  in  1836,  not 
in  1837,  as  th6  Chopinists  believe.  Liszt  in 
troduced  them.  Later  Chopin  quarrelled  with 
Liszt  about  her.  Chopin  did  not  like  her  at 
first;  blue  stockings  were  not  to  the  taste  of 
this  conventional  man  of  the  world.  Yet  he 
succumbed.  He  died  of  the  liaison  itself,  rather 
than  from  the  separation  in  1847.  Sand  divined 
the  genius  of  Chopin  before  many  of  his  critical 
contemporaries.  She  had  the  courage  —  and 
the  wisdom  —  to  write  that  one  of  his  Tiny 
Preludes  contained  more  genuine  music  than 
much  of  Meyerbeer's  mighty  Trumpetings. 
And  Meyerbeer  ruled  the  world  of  music  when 
she  said  this. 

The  immediate  cause  of  this  separation  I 
hinted  at  in  my  early  study  of  Chopin.  So- 
74 


GEORGP:  SAND 

lange  Sand,  the  daughter  of  George,  was  a 
thoroughly  perverse  girl.  She  not  only  flirted 
with  Chopin,  seeking  to  lure  him  from  her 
mother  —  truly  a  Gallic  triangle  —  but  she  so 
contrived  matters  that  her  mother  was  forced 
to  allow  the  intriguing  girl  to  marry  her  lover, 
Clesinger,  the  sculptor.  The  knowledge  of  this 
Mme.  Sand  kept  from  Chopin  for  a  while  be 
cause  she  feared  that  he  would  side  with  So- 
lange.  He  promptly  did  so,  being  furious  at 
the  deception.  He  it  was  who  broke  with 
George,  possibly  aided  thereto  by  her  nagging. 
He  saw  much  of  Solange,  and  pecuniarily  helped 
her  young  and  unhappy  household.  He  an 
nounced  by  letter  to  George  the  news  that  she 
was  a  grandmother;  they  occasionally  corre 
sponded. 

Clesinger  did  not  get  on  with  his  mother-in- 
law.  She  once  boxed  his  ears.  He  drank, 
gambled,  and  brutally  treated  Solange.  George 
Sand  suffered  the  agony  of  seeing  in  her 
daughter's  life  a  duplicate  of  her  own.  Her 
husband,  Fran^ois-Casimir  Dudevant,  a  de 
bauched  country  squire,  drank,  was  unfaithful, 
and  beat  her  betimes.  He  treated  his  dogs 
better.  No  wonder  she  ran  away  to  Paris, 
there  to  live  with  Jules  Sandeau.  (She  had 
married  in  1822,  and  brought  her  husband 
five  hundred  thousand  francs.) 

But,  rain  or  shine,  joy  or  sorrow,  she  did 
her  daily  stunt  at  her  desk.  She  was  a  jour 
nalist  and  wrote  by  the  sweat  of  her  copious 
75 


GEORGE  SAND 

soul.  She  was  the  rare  possessor  of  the  Will- 
to-Sit-Still,  as  metaphysicians  would  say.  She 
thought  with  her  nerves  and  felt  with  her  brain. 
She  was,  morally  speaking,  magnificently  dis 
organised.  She  was  a  subtle  mixer  of  praise 
and  poison,  and  her  autobiography  is  stuffed 
with  falsehoods.  She  couldn't  help  falsifying 
facts,  for  she  was  an  incurable  sentimentalist. 
Heine  has  cruelly  said  that  women  writers 
write  with  one  eye  on  the  paper,  the  other  on 
some  man;  all  except  the  Countess  Hahn-Hahn, 
who  had  one  eye.  George  Sand  wrote  with 
both  eyes  fixed  on  a  man,  or  men.  Charity 
should  cover  a  multitude  of  her  missteps.  In 
her  case  we  don't  know  all.  We  know  too  much. 
Still,  I  believe  she  was  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning. 

Ill 

Since  the  fatal  day  when  our  earliest  ances 
tors  left  the  Garden  of  Eden,  when  Adam 
digged  and  Eve  span,  there  have  been  a  million 
things  that  women  were  told  they  shouldn't 
attempt,  that  is,  not  without  the  penalty  of 
losing  their  "womanliness,"  or  interfering  with 
their  family  duties.  But  they  continued,  did 
these  same  refractory  females,  to  overcome 
obstacles,  leap  social  hurdles,  make  mock  of 
antique  taboos,  and  otherwise  disport  them 
selves  as  if  they  were  free  individuals,  and  not 
petticoated  with  absurd  prejudices.  They 


GEORGE  SAND 

loved.  They  married.  They  became  mothers. 
George  Sand  was  in  the  vanguard  of  this  small 
army  of  protestants  against  the  prevailing 
moral  code  (for  woman  only).  Her  unhappy 
marriage  was  a  blazing  bonfire  of  revolt.  The 
misunderstood  woman  at  last  had  her  innings. 
Sand  stood  for  all  that  was  wicked  and  hateful 
in  the  eyes  of  law  and  order.  Yet,  compared 
with  the  feminine  fiction  of  our  days,  Sand's 
is  positively  idylic.  She  is  one  parent  of  the 
Woman  movement,  unpalatable  as  her  mor?ls 
may  prove  to  churchgoers.  She  acted  in  life 
what  so  many  of  our  belligerent  ladies  urge 
others  to  do  —  and  never  attempt  on  their  own 
account.  George  was  brave.  And  George  was 
polyandrous.  If  she  hadn't  much  temperament, 
she  had  the  courage  to  throw  her  bonnet  over 
the  windmill  when  she  saw  the  man  she  liked, 
and  if  she  suffered  later,  she,  being  an  artist, 
made  a  literary  asset  of  these  sufferings.  She 
is  the  true  ancestor  of  the  New  Woman.  Her 
books  were  considered  so  immoral  by  her  gen 
eration  that  to  be  seen  reading  them  was  enough 
to  damn  a  man.  Other  males,  other  tales. 

She  dared  "to  live  her  own  life,"  as  the  Ib- 
senites  say,  and  she  was  the  original  Ibsen 
girl,  proof-before-all-letters.  I  haven't  the 
slightest  doubt  that  to-day  she  would  speak 
to  street  crowds,  urging  the  vote  for  woman. 
Why  shouldn't  woman  vote?  she  might  be 
supposed  to  argue.  There  will  be  less  dys 
pepsia  in  America  when  women  desert  the 
77 


GEORGE  SAND 

kitchen  for  the  halls  of  legislation.  Men,  per 
force,  are  better  cooks.  So,  by  all  means, 
let  woman  vote.  Will  it  not  be  an  acid  test 
applied  to  our  alleged  democratic  institutions? 
George  Sand  believed  herself  to  be  a  social- 
democrat.  She  trusted  in  Pierre  Leroux's 
mysticism,  trusted  in  the  phalanstery  of  Fourier, 
in  the  doctrines  of  Saint-Simon,  the  latter  espe 
cially  because  of  her  intimacy  with  Franz  Liszt; 
nevertheless,  she  might  shudder  at  the  emanci 
pation  of  ideas  in  our  century,  and,  as  she  had 
a  sensitive  soul,  modern  democracy  might  prove 
for  her  a  very  delirium  of  ugliness.  She  was 
always  aesthetic.  She  could  portray  with  a 
tender  pen  the  stammering  litany  of  young 
caresses,  but  she  couldn't  face  a  fact  in  her 
fiction.  Her  Indianas,  Lelias,  and  the  other 
romantic  insurgents  against  society  are  Byronic, 
Laras  in  petticoats.  All  rose-water  and  rage, 
they  are  as  rare  in  life  as  black  lightning  on  a 
blue  sky.  Her  stories  are  as  sad  and  as  ridic 
ulous  as  a  nightcap. 

IV 

George  Sand  was  not  beautiful.  Edouard 
Grenier  declares  that  she  was  short  and  stout. 
"Her  eyes  were  wonderful,  but  a  little  too  close 
together."  Do  you  recall  Heine's  phrase, 
"  Femme  avec  1'ceil  sombre  "  ?  Black  they  were, 
those  eyes,  and  they  reminded  Grenier  at 
once  of  unpolished  marble  and  velvet.  "Her 


GEORGE  SAND 

nose  was  thick  and  not  overshapely.  She  spoke 
with  great  simplicity  and  her  manner  was  very 
quiet."  With  these  rather  negative  physical 
attractions  she  conquered  men  like  Napoleon. 
Even  prim  President  Thiers  tried  to  kiss  her 
and  her  indignation  was  epical.  He  is  said 
to  have  giggled  in  a  silly  way  when  reproved. 
It  seems  incredible.  (Did  you  ever  see  the 
Bonnat  portrait  of  this  philistine  statesman?) 
Liszt  never  wholly  yielded  to  her.  Merimee 
despised  her  in  his  chilly  fashion.  Michel  de 
Bourges  treated  her  rudely.  Poor  Alfred  de 
Musset  —  who,  when  he  was  short  of  money, 
would  dine  in  an  obscure  tavern,  and,  with  a 
toothpick  in  his  mouth,  would  stand  at  the 
entrance  of  some  fashionable  boulevard  cafe 
—  seems  to  have  loved  her  romantically,  the 
sort  of  love  she  craved.  What  was  her  attrac 
tion?  She  had  brains  and  magnetism,  but 
that  she  could  have  loved  all  the  lovers  she  is 
credited  with  is  impossible. 

There  is,  to  begin  at  the  beginning,  Jules 
Sandeau,  who  was  followed  by  De  Musset; 
after  him  the  deluge:  Doctor  Pagello  —  who 
was  jilted  when  he  followed  her  to  Paris;  Michel 
de  Bourges,  Pierre  Leroux,  Felicien  Mallefille, 
Chopin,  Merimee,  Manceau,  and  the  platonic 
friendship  with  Flaubert.  This  was  her  sanest 
friendship;  the  correspondence  proves  it.  She 
went  to  the  Magny  dinners  with  Flaubert, 
Goncourt,  Renan,  Zola,  Turgenev,  and  Dau- 
det.  Her  influence  on  the  grumbling  giant  of 
79 


GEORGE  SAND 

Croisset  was  tonic.  It  was  she  who  should 
have  written  Sentimental  Education.  But 
where  is  that  sly  old  voluptuary,  Sainte-Beuve, 
or  the  elder  Dumas  (the  Pasha  of  many  tales), 
or  Liszt,  who  was  her  adorer  for  a  brief  period, 
notwithstanding  Mme.  Karenine's  denial?  She 
denies  the  Leroux  affair,  too.  Are  these  all? 
Who  dare  say? 

Dumas  fils  carried  a  bundle  of  Chopin's 
letters  from  Warsaw  and  Sand  buried  them  at 
Nohant.  This  story,  doubted  by  Doctor  Niecks, 
has  been  corroborated  since  by  Mme.  Karenine. 
What  a  loss  for  inquisitive  critics!  George 
was  named  Lucile  Aurore  Dupin,  and  she  was 
descended  from  a  choice  chain  of  rowdy  and 
remotely  royal  ancestors.  In  her  mature  years 
she  became  optimistic,  proper,  matronly.  She 
was  a  cheerful  milch  cow  for  her  two  children. 
It  is  delicious  comedy  to  read  the  warnings  to 
her  son  Maurice  against  actresses.  Solange 
she  gave  up  as  hopelessly  selfish,  wicked  for 
the  sheer  sake  of  wickedness,  a  sort  of  inverted 
and  evil  art-for-art. 

Nearly  all  the  facts  of  the  quarrel  with  So 
lange  are  to  be  found  in  Samuel  Rocheblave's 
George  Sand  et  Sa  Fille.  After  Solange  left 
Clesinger  she  formed  a  literary  partnership 
with  the  Marquis  Alfieri,  nephew  of  the  great 
Italian  poet.  "Soli"  opened  a  salon  in  Paris, 
to  which  came  Gambetta,  Jules  Ferry,  Floquet, 
Taine,  Herve,  Henry  Fouquier,  and  Weiss,  the 
critic  who  describes  her  as  having  the  "curved 
80 


GEORGE  SAND 

Hebraic  nose  of  her  mother  and  hair  cold  black." 
She,  too,  must  write  novels.  She  died  at  No- 
hant,  her  mother's  old  home,  in  1899.  Maurice 
Sand,  her  brother,  died  ten  years  earlier. 

Jules  Claretie  tells  an  amusing  story  about 
Sand.  In  1870,  when  she  was  old  and  full  of 
honours,  she  went  one  day  to  visit  the  Minister 
of  Instruction.  There,  being  detained  in  the 
antechamber,  she  fell  into  a  pleasant  conversa 
tion  with  a  well-groomed,  decorated  old  gentle 
man.  After  ten  minutes'  chat  the  unknown 
consulted  his  watch,  arose,  and  bowed  to  Mme. 
Sand.  "If  I  could  always  find  such  a  charming 
companion  I  would  visit  the  Ministry  often," 
he  gallantly  said,  and  went  away.  The  novelist 
called  an  attendant.  "Who  is  that  amiable 
gentleman?"  she  asked.  "Ah,  that  is  M.  Jules 
Sandeau  of  the  French  Academy."  And  he, 
her  first  flame  in  Paris,  inquired  the  name  of 
the  lady.  What  a  lot  of  head-shaking  and 
moralising  must  have  ensued!  The  story  is 
pretty  enough  to  have  been  written  in  the  can 
died  thunder  of  Sand  herself. 

De  Lenz,  author  of  several  rather  neglected 
volumes  about  musicians,  did  not  like  Sand 
because  she  was  rude  to  him  when  introduced 
by  Chopin.  He  asked  her  concierge,  "What 
is  Madame  properly  called  —  Dudevant?" 
"Ah,  Monsieur,  she  has  many  names,"  was  the 
reply.  But  it  is  her  various  names,  and  not 
her  novels,  that  interest  us,  and  will  intrigue  the 
attention  of  posterity. 

81 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE    GREAT   AMERICAN   NOVEL 


WHEN  the  supreme  master  of  the  historical 
novel  modestly  confessed  that  he  could  do  the 
"big  bow-wow  strain,"  but  to  Jane  Austen 
must  be  accorded  the  palm  of  exquisite  crafts 
manship,  there  was  then  no  question  upon  the 
critical  map  of  the  so-called  "great  American 
novel."  Sir  Walter  Scott — "to  whom  such 
authors  of  historical  novels  as  Chateaubriand 
and  his  Martyrs,  the  Salammbo  of  Flaubert, 
and  that  well-nigh  perfect  fiction,  The  History 
of  Henry  Esmond,  by  Thackeray,  yield  pre 
cedence  —  might  have  achieved  the  impossible : 
the  writing  of  a  library,  epitomising  the  social 
history  of  "These  States"  —  as  Walt  Whitman 
would  say.  After  Scott  no  name  but  Balzac's 
occurs  to  the  memory;  Balzac,  who  laid  all 
France  under  his  microscope  (and  France  is 
all  of  a  piece,  not  the  checker-board  of  national 
ities  we  call  America) .  Even  the  mighty  Tolstoy 
would  have  balked  the  job.  And  if  these  giants 
would  have  failed,  what  may  be  said  of  their 
successors?  The  idea  of  a  great  American 
novel  is  an  "absolute,"  and  nature  abhors  an 
absolute,  despite  the  belief  of  some  metaphy- 
82 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

sicians  to  the  contrary.  Yet  the  notion  still 
obtains  and  inquests  are  held  from  time  to 
time,  and  the  opinions  of  contemporary  novel 
ists  are  taken  toll  of;  as  if  each  man  and  woman 
could  give  aught  else  but  their  own  side  of 
the  matter,  that  side  which  is  rightfully  enough 
personal  and  provincial.  The  question  is,  after 
all,  an  affair  for  critics,  and  the  great  American 
novel  will  be  in  the  plural;  thousands  perhaps. 
America  is  a  chord  of  many  nations,  and  to 
find  the  key-note  we  must  play  much  and  varied 
music. 

While  a  novelist  may  be  cosmopolitan  at  his 
own  risk,  a  critic  should  be  ever  so.  (Consider 
the  names  of  such  widely  contrasted  critical 
temperaments  as  Sainte-Beuve,  Taine,  De  Gour- 
mont,  Matthew  Arnold,  Brandes,  Swinburne, 
Arthur  Symons,  Havelock  Ellis,  Henry  James, 
Gosse,  and  W.  C.  Brownell;  all  cosmopolitan 
as  well  as  national.  The  sublime  tenuities  of 
Henry  James,  like  the  black  music  of  Michael 
Artzibashef,  are  questions  largely  tempera 
mental.  But  the  Russian  is  all  Slavic,  and 
no  one  would  maintain  that  Mr.  James  shows 
a  like  ingrained  nationalism.  Nevertheless,  he 
is  American,  though  dealing  only  with  a  cer 
tain  side  of  American  life,  the  cosmopolitan 
phase.  At  his  peril  an  American  novelist  sails 
eastward  to  describe  the  history  of  his  country 
men  abroad.  With  the  critic  we  come  upon  a 
different  territory.  He  may  go  gadding  after 
new  mud-gods  (the  newest  god  invented  by 

83 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

man  is  always  the  greatest),  for  the  time  being, 
and  return  to  his  native  heath  mentally  re 
freshed  and  broadened  by  his  foreign  outing. 
Not  so  the  maker  of  fiction.  Once  he  cuts 
loose  his  balloon  he  is  in  danger  of  not  getting 
home  again. 

Mr.  James  is  a  splendid  case  for  us;  he  began 
in  America  and  landed  in  England,  there  to 
stay.  Our  other  felicitous  example  of  cosmo 
politanism  is  Henry  Blake  Fuller,  the  author 
of  The  Chevalier  Pensieri  Vani  and  The  Chate 
laine  de  la  Trinite,  who  was  so  widely  read  in 
the  nineties.  After  those  charming  excursions 
into  a  rapidly  vanishing  Europe  Mr.  Fuller 
reversed  the  proceeding  of  James;  he  returned 
to  America  and  composed  two  novels  of  high 
artistic  significance,  The  Cliff  Dwellers  and 
With  the  Procession,  which,  while  they  con 
tinued  the  realistic  tradition  of  William  Dean 
Howells,  were  also  the  forerunners  of  a  new 
movement  in  America.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
dwell  now  on  The  Last  Refuge,  or  on  that 
masterly  book  of  spiritual  parodies,  The  Puppet- 
Booth.  But  Mr.  Fuller  did  not  write  the  great 
American  novel.  Neither  did  Mr.  Howells, 
nor  Mr.  James.  Who  has?  No  one.  Is  there 
such  a  thing?  Without  existing  it  might  be 
described  in  Celtic  fashion,  this  mythical  work, 
as  pure  fiction.  Let  us  admit  for  the  sake  of 
argument  that  if  it  were  written  by  some  un 
known  monster  of  genius,  it  would,  like  Lewis 
Carroll's  Snark,  turn  into  a  Boojum. 
84 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

Henry  James  has  said  that  no  one  is  com 
pelled  to  admire  any  particular  sort  of  writing; 
that  the  province  of  fiction  is  all  life,  and  he 
has  also  wisely  remarked  that  "when  you  have 
no  taste  you  have  no  discretion,  which  is  the 
conscience  of  taste,"  and  may  we  add,  when 
you  have  no  discretion  you  perpetrate  the  shock 
ing  fiction  with  which  America  is  deluged  at 
this  hour.  We  are.  told  that  the  new  writers 
have  altered  the  old  canons  of  bad  taste,  but 
"plus  c.a  change,  plus  c'est  la  meme  chose." 
A  liquorish  sentimentality  is  the  ever- threaten 
ing  rock  upon  which  the  bark  of  young  Amer 
ican  novelists  goes  to  pieces.  (Pardon  the 
mixed  metaphor.)  Be  sentimental  and  you 
will  succeed !  We  agree  with  Dostoievsky  that 
in  fiction,  as  well  as  in  life,  there  are  no  general 
principles,  only  special  cases.  But  these  cases, 
could  they  not  be  typical?  even  if  there  are 
not  types,  only  individuals.  And  are  men  and 
women  so  inthralled  by  the  molasses  of  senti- 
mentalism  in  life?  Have  the  motion-pictures 
hopelessly  deranged  our  critical  values?  I 
know  that  in  America  charity  covers  a  multi 
tude  of  mediocrities,  nevertheless,  I  am  loath 
to  believe  that  all  one  reads  in  praise  of  wretched 
contemporary  fiction  is  meant  in  earnest. 

Well,  chacun  a  ses  degouts !  The  "thrilling" 
detective  story,  the  romantic  sonorities  of  the 
ice  cream-soda  woman  novelist  ?  —  with  a  triple- 
barrelled  name,  as  Rudyard  Kipling  put  it 
once  upon  a  time  —  or  that  church  of  Heavenly 
85 


THE   GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

Ennui,  the  historical  novel  —  what  a  cemetery 
of  ideas,  all  of  them!  An  outsider  must  be 
puzzle-pated  by  this  tumult  of  tasteless^  writ 
ing  and  worse  observation.  However,  history  in 
fiction  may  be  a  cavalcade  of  shining  shadows, 
brilliant,  lugubrious,  dull,  or  joyful  happenings; 
but  where  Thackeray  succeeded  multitudes 
have  failed.  Who  shall  bend  the  bow  of  that 
Ulysses?  Native  talent,  subtle  and  robust, 
we  possess  in  abundance;  thus  far  it  has  culti 
vated  with  success  its  own  parochial  garden  — 
which  is  as  it  should  be.  The  United  States 
of  Fiction.  America  is  Cosmopolis. 

II 

As  to  the  Puritanism  of  our  present  novels 
one  may  dare  to  say  in  the  teeth  of  youthful 
protestants  that  it  is  non-existent.  The  pendu 
lum  has  swung  too  far  the  other  way.  And  as 
literary  artists  are  rare,  the  result  has  not  been 
reassuring.  Zola  seems  prudish  after  some 
experiments  of  the  younger  crowd.  How  badly 
they  pull  off  the  trick.  How  coarse  and  hard 
and  heavy  their  touch.  Most  of  these  produc 
tions  read  like  stupid  translations  from  a  dull 
French  original.  They  are  not  immoral,  only 
vulgar.  As  old  Flaubert  used  to  say:  such 
books  are  false,  nature  is  not  like  that.  How 
keenly  he  saw  through  the  humbug  of  "free 
love"  —  a  romantic  tradition  of  George  Sand's 
epoch  —  may  be  noted  in  his  comment  that 
86 


THE   GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

Emma  Bo  vary  found  in  adultery  all  the  plati 
tudes  of  marriage.  Ah!  that  much-despised, 
stupid,  venerable  institution,  marriage!  How 
it  has  been  flouted  since  the  days  of  Rousseau  — 
the  father  of  false  romanticism  and  that  stu 
pefying  legend,  the  " equality''  of  mankind. 
(0!  the  beautiful  word,  "  equality,"  invented 
for  the  delectation  of  rudimentary  minds.)  A 
century  and  more  fiction  has  played  with  the 
theme  of  concubinage.  If  the  Nacquet  divorce 
bill  had  been  introduced  a  decade  or  so  before 
it  was  in  France,  what  would  have  become  of 
the  theatre  of  Dumas  fils,  or  later,  of  the  mis 
understood  woman  in  Ibsen's  plays?  All  such 
tribal  taboos  make  or  unmake  literature. 

So,  merely  as  a  suggestion  to  ambitious 
youngsters,  let  the  novelist  of  the  future  in 
search  of  a  novelty  describe  a  happy  marriage, 
children,  a  husband  who  doesn't  drink  or  gamble, 
a  wife  who  votes,  yet  loves  her  home,  her  family, 
and  knows  how  to  cook.  What  a  realistic  bomb 
shell  he  would  hurl  into  the  camp  of  senti 
mental  socialists  and  them  that  believe  a  wed 
ding  certificate  is  like  Balzac's  La  Peau  de 
Chagrin  —  a  document  daily  shrinking  in  hap 
piness.  Absurdities  make  martyrs,  but  of  all 
the  absurd  and  ineffectual  martyrdoms  that  of 
running  off  with  another's  wife  is  usually  the 
crowning  one.  "I  don't  call  this  very  popular 
pie,"  said  the  little  boy  in  Richard  Grant  White's 
story;  and  the  man  in  the  case  is  usually  the 
first  to  complain  of  his  bargain  in  pastry. 
87 


THE   GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

However,  categories  are  virtually  an  avowal 
of  mental  impuissance,  and  all  marriages  are 
not  made  in  heaven.  In  the  kingdom  of  moral 
ity  there  are  many  mansions.  When  too  late 
you  may  sport  with  the  shade  —  not  in  the 
shade  —  of  Amaryllis,  and  perhaps  elbow  epi 
grams  as  a  lean  consolation.  That  is  your  own 
affair.  Paul  Verlaine  has  told  us  that  "j'ai 
vecu  enormement,"  though  his  living  enor 
mously  did  not  prove  that  he  was  happy.  Far 
from  it.  But  he  had  at  least  the  courage  to  re 
late  his  terrors.  American  novelists  may  agree 
with  Dostoievsky  that  "everything  in  the  world 
always  ends  in  meanness";  or  with  Doctor  Pan- 
gloss  that  all  is  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  pos 
sible  worlds.  An  affair  of  temperament.  But 
don't  mix  the  values.  Don't  confuse  intellec 
tual  substances.  Don't  smear  a  fact  with 
treacle  and  call  it  truth.  Above  all,  don't 
preach.  Impiety  is  an  indiscretion,  yet,  don't 
be  afraid  to  tell  the  truth.  From  Jane  Austen 
and  Walter  Scott,  the  parents  of  the  modern 
English  novel,  to  many  modern  instances,  fic 
tion  has  thrived  best  on  naked  truth.  All 
the  rest  is  sawdust,  tripe-selling,  and  senti- 
mentalism.  Didn't  Mr.  Roundabout  declare 
in  one  of  his  famous  papers  that  "Figs  are 
sweet,  but  fictions  are  sweeter"?  In  our  land 
we  can't  get  the  latter  sweet  enough.  Altruism, 
Brotherhood  of  Man  Uplifting.  These  are  the 
shibboleths  of  the  "nouvelles  couches  sociales." 
Prodigious ! 

88 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 


III 

J.-K.  Huysmans  declared  that  in  the  land 
of  books  there  are  no  schools;  no  idealism, 
realism,  symbolism;  only  good  writers  and 
bad.  Whistler  said  the  same  about  painting 
and  painters.  Setting  aside  the  technical  view 
point  of  such  dicta,  we  fancy  that  our  "best 
sellers"  do  not  preoccupy  themselves  with  the 
"mere  writing"  of  their  fictions,  but  they  have 
developed  a  formidable  faculty  of  preaching. 
Old-fashioned  fiction  that  discloses  personal 
charm,  that  delineates  manners,  or  stirs  the 
pulse  of  tragedy  —  not  melodrama,  is  vanishing 
from  publishers'  lists.  Are  there  not  as  many 
charming  men  and  women  perambulating  the 
rind  of  the  planet  as  there  were  in  the  days 
when  Jane  Austen,  or  Howells,  or  Turgenev 
wrote?  We  refuse  to  believe  there  are  not; 
but  there  is  little  opportunity,  in  a  word,  no 
market,  for  the  display  of  these  qualities.  The 
novel  with  a  purpose,  generally  an  unpleasant 
purpose,  has  usurped  the  rule  of  the  novel  of 
character  and  manners.  Boanerges,  not  Bal 
zac,  now  occupies  the  pasteboard  pulpit  of 
fiction. 

I  quoted  Henry  James  to  the  effect  that  all 
life  is  the  province  of  the  novelist.  Neverthe 
less,  the  still  small  garden  wherein  is  reared 
the  tender  solitary  flower  does  but  ill  represent 
the  vaster,  complicated  forest  of  common  hu- 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

inanity.  The  ivory  tower  of  the  cultivated 
egoist  is  not  to  be  unduly  admired;  rather 
Zola's  La  Terre  with  its  foul  facts  than  a  palace 
of  morbid  art.  Withal,  the  didactic  side  of 
our  fiction  is  overdone.  I  set  it  down  to  the 
humbug  about  the  " masses"  being  opposed 
to  the  "  classes."  Truly  a  false  antithesis.  As 
if  the  French  bourgeois  were  not  a  product  of  the 
revolution  (poor  bourgeois,  always  abused  by 
the  novelist).  As  if  a  poor  man  suddenly 
enriched  didn't  prove,  as  a  rule,  the  hardest 
taskmaster  to  his  own  class.  Consider  the 
new-rich.  What  a  study  they  afford  the  students 
of  manners.  A  new  generation  has  arisen.  Its 
taste,  intelligence,  and  culture;  its  canned 
manners,  canned  music  —  preferably  pseudo- 
African  —  canned  art,  canned  food,  canned 
literature;  its  devotion  to  the  mediocre  —  what 
a  field  for  our  aspiring  young  "  secretaries  to 
society." 

Cheap  prophylactics,  political  and  religious 
—  for  religion  is  fast  being  butchered  to  make 
the  sensational  evangelists'  holiday  —  are  in 
vogue.  They  affect  our  fiction-mongers,  who 
burn  to  avenge  wrongs,  write  novels  about 
the  "  downtrodden  masses,"  and  sermons  on 
social  evils  —  evils  that  have  always  existed, 
always  will  exist.  Like  the  knife-grinder,  story 
they  have  none  to  tell.  Why  write  fiction,  or 
what  they  are  pleased  to  call  fiction?  Why 
not  join  the  brave  brigade  of  agitators  and 
pamphleteers?  The  lay  preachers  are  carrying 
90 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

off  the  sweepstakes.  For  them  Mr.  Howells  is 
a  superannuated  writer.  Would  there  were 
more  like  him  in  continence  of  speech,  whole- 
someness  of  judgment,  nobility  of  ideals,  and 
in  the  shrewd  perception  of  character. 

Fiction,  too,  is  a  fine  art,  though  this  patent 
fact  has  escaped  the  juvenile  Paul  Prys,  who 
are  mainly  endeavouring  to  arouse  class  against 
mass.  It's  an  old  dodge,  this  equality  theory, 
as  old  as  Beelzebub,  Lord  of  Flies.  When  all 
fruit  fails,  welcome  envy  and  malicious  slander 
ing.  When  you  have  nothing  else  to  write 
about,  attack  your  neighbour,  especially  if  he 
hath  a  much-coveted  vineyard.  Max  S timer, 
least  understood  of  social  philosophers,  wrote, 
"Mind  your  own  business,"  and  he  forged  on 
the  anvil  of  experience  a  mighty  leading  motive 
for  the  conduct  of  life.  But  our  busy  little 
penmen  don't  see  in  this  golden  motto  a  suf 
ficient  sentimental  appeal.  It  doesn't  flatter 
the  " masses."  Mr.  Bryan  a  few  years  ago 
told  us  that  we  were  all  middle  class.  What  is 
middle  class?  In  Carlyle's  day  it  was  a  " gig- 
man";  in  ours  is  it  the  owner  of  a  " flivver"? 
But  in  the  case  of  Snob  vs.  Mob,  Snob  always 
wins. 

This  twaddle  about  " democratic  art"  is  the 
bane  of  our  literature.  There  is  only  good  art. 
Whether  it  deals  with  such  "democratic"  sub 
jects  as  L'Assommoir  or  Germinie  Lacerteux,  or 
such  "aristocratic"  themes  as  those  of  D'An- 
nunzio  and  Paul  Bourget,  it  is  the  art  thereof 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

that  determines  the  product.  I  hold  no  brief 
for  the  sterile  fiction  that  is  enrolled  under 
the  banner  of  "Art  for  Art."  I  go  so  far  as  to 
believe  that  a  novelist  with  a  beautiful  style 
often  allows  that  style  to  get  in  the  way  of 
human  nature.  Stained-glass  windows  have 
their  use,  but  they  falsify  the  daylight.  A 
decorative  style  may  suit  pseudo-mediaeval 
romances,  but  for  twentieth-century  realism 
it  is  sadly  amiss.  Nor  is  the  arterio-sclerotic 
school  of  psychological  analysis  to  be  altogether 
commended.  It  has  been  well-nigh  done  to 
death  by  Stendhal,  Meredith,  James,  and 
Bourget;  and  it  is  as  cold  as  a  star.  Flaubert 
urged  as  an  objection  to  writing  a  novel,  prov 
ing  something  that  the  other  fellow  can  prove 
precisely  the  opposite.  In  either  case  selection 
plays  the  role. 

The  chief  argument  against  the  novel  "with 
a  purpose"  -  as  the  jargon  goes  —  is  its  lack 
of  validity  either  as  a  document  or  as  art.  A 
novel  may  be  anything,  but  it  must  not  be 
polemical.  Zola  has  been,  still  is,  the  evil 
genius  of  many  talented  chaps  who  "sling 
ink,"  not  to  make  a  genuine  book,  but  to  create 
a  sensation.  Such  writers  lack  patience,  art, 
and  direction.  They  always  keep  one  eye  on 
the  box-office.  Indeed,  the  young  men  and 
women  of  the  day,  who  are  squandering  upon 
paper  their  golden  genius,  painfully  resemble 
in  their  productions  the  dime  novels  once  pub 
lished  by  the  lamented  Beadle  or  the  lucubra- 
92 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

tions  in  the  Saturday  weeklies  of  long  ago. 
But  in  those  publications  there  was  more  viril 
ity.  The  heroes  then  were  not  well-dressed 
namby-pambies;  the  villains  were  villainous; 
the  detectives  detected  real  crimes,  and  were 
not  weavers  of  metaphysical  abstractions  like 
your  latter-day  miracle-workers  of  an  impos 
sible  Scotland  Yard;  and  the  girls  were  girls, 
neither  neurasthenic,  nor  did  they  outgolf  all 
creation.  The  "new"  novelists  still  deal  with 
the  same  raw  material  of  melodrama.  Their 
handling  of  love-episodes  has  much  of  the  blar- 
ing-brass  quality  of  old-fashioned  Italian  opera. 
They  loudly  twang  the  strings  of  sloppy  senti 
ment,  which  evoke  not  music,  but  mush  and 
moonshine.  And  these  are  our  "motion-mas 
ters  "  to-day. 

IV 

There  can  be  no  objection  to  literature  and 
life  coming  to  grips.  Letters  should  touch 
reality.  Many  a  sturdy  blow  has  been  struck 
at  abuses  by  penmen  masquerading  behind 
fiction.  No  need  to  summon  examples.  As 
for  realism  —  I  deny  there  are  commonplace 
people.  Only  those  writers  are  commonplace 
that  believe  in  the  phrase.  It  is  one  of  the  para 
doxes  of  art  that  the  commonplace  folk  of 
Thackeray,  Flaubert,  or  Anthony  Trollope  who 
delight  us  between  covers  would  in  life  greatly 
bore  us.  The  ennui  is  artistically  suggested, 
93 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

though  not  experienced  by  the  reader.  It  is 
the  magic  of  the  novelist,  his  style  and  philos 
ophy,  that  make  his  creations  vital. 

Dostoievsky  says  there  are  no  old  women  — 
to  be  sure  he  puts  the  expression  in  the  mouth 
of  the  sensualist  Karamazov  —  and  as  a  corol 
lary  I  maintain  that  nothing  is  uninteresting 
if  painted  by  a  master  hand,  from  carrots  to 
Chopin.  As  for  the  historical  novel,  there  is 
Sentimental  Education  as  a  model,  if  you  desire 
something  epical  in  scale  and  charged  with  the 
modern  ironic  spirit.  A  Flaubertian  master 
piece,  this  book,  with  its  daylight  atmosphere; 
the  inimitable  sound,  shape,  gait,  and  varied 
prose  rhythms  of  its  sentences,  its  marvellous 
gallery  of  portraits  executed  in  the  Dutch 
manner  of  flals  and  Vermeer,  its  nearness  to 
its  environment,  and  its  fidelity  to  the  pattern 
of  life.  It  is  a  true  "historical"  novel,  for  it  is 
real  —  to  employ  the  admirable  simile  of  Mr. 
Howells. 

No  need  to  transpose  the  tragic  gloom  of 
Artzibashef  to  America;  we  are  an  optimistic 
people,  thanks  to  our  air  and  sky,  political 
conditions,  and  the  immigration  of  sturdy 
peasant  folk.  Yet  we,  too,  have  our  own  pe 
culiar  gloom  and  misery  and  social  problems 
to  solve.  We  are  far  from  being  the  "shadow- 
land"  of  fiction,  as  a  certain  English  critic 
said.  When  I  praise  the  dissonantal  art  of 
Michael  Artzibashef  it  is  not  with  the  idea 
that  either  his  style  or  his  pessimism  should 
94 


THE  GREAT  AMERICAN  NOVEL 

be  aped.  That  way  unoriginality  lies.  But  I 
do  contend  that  in  the  practice  of  his  art,  its 
sincerity,  its  profundity,  he  might  be  profitably 
patterned  after  by  the  younger  generation. 
Art  should  elevate  as  well  as  amuse.  Must 
fiction  always  be  silly  and  shallow?  It  need 
be  neither  sordid  nor  didactic. 

William  James  put  the  matter  in  a  nutshell 
when  he  wrote  that  "the  whole  atmosphere  of 
present-day  Utopian  literature  tastes  mawkish 
and  dish-watery  to  people  who  still  keep  a  sense 
of  life's  more  bitter  flavours.57  And  on  this 
fundamentally  sound  note  I  must  end  my  little 
sermon  —  for  I  find  that  I  have  been  practising 
the  very  preaching  against  which  I  warned 
embryo  novelists.  But,  then,  isn't  every  critic 
a  lay  preacher  ? 


95 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  CASE  OF   PAUL  CEZANNE 

THE  case  of  painter  Paul  Cezanne.  Is  he 
a  stupendous  nobody  or  a  surpassing  genius? 
The  critical  doctors  disagree,  an  excellent  omen 
for  the  reputation  of  the  man  from  Provence. 
We  do  not  discuss  a  corpse,  and  though  Cezanne 
died  in  1906  he  is  still  a  living  issue  among 
artists  and  writers.  Every  exhibition  calls 
forth  comment:  fair,  unfair,  ignorant,  and  sel 
dom  just.  Yet  the  Cezanne  question,  is  it  so 
difficult  to  resolve?  Like  Brahms,  the  French 
man  is  often  misrepresented;  Brahms,  known 
now  as  a  Romantic  writing  within  the  walls  of 
accepted  forms,  neither  a  pedant  nor  a  revolu 
tionist;  Cezanne,  not  a  revolutionist,  not  an 
innovator,  vastly  interested  in  certain  problems, 
has  been  made  "chef  d'ecole"  and  fathered 
with  a  lot  of  theories  which  would  send  him 
into  one  of  his  famous  rages  if  he  could  hear 
them.  Either  a  revolutionist  or  a  plagiarist! 
cried  Paul  Gauguin  —  whose  work  was  heartily 
detested  by  Cezanne;  but  truth  is  ever  medi 
ocre,  whether  it  resides  at  the  bottom  of  a  well 
or  swings  on  the  cusps  of  the  new  moon.  What 
is  the  truth  about  Cezanne?  The  question 
bobs  up  every  season.  His  so-called  followers 


THE  CASE  OF  PAUL  CfiZANNE 

raise  a  clamour  over  the  banality  of  "represen 
tation"  in  art,  and  their  master  is  the  one  man 
in  the  history  of  art  who  squandered  on  canvas 
startling  evocations  of  actuality,  whose  nose 
was  closest  to  the  soil.  Huysmans  was  called 
an  "eye"  by  Remy  de  Gourmont.  Paul  Ce 
zanne  is  also  an  eye. 

In  1901  I  saw  at  the  Champs  de  Mars  Salon 
a  picture  by  Maurice  Denis  entitled  Hommage 
a  Cezanne,  the  idea  of  which  was  manifestly 
inspired  by  Manet's  Hommage  a  Fantin-La- 
tour.  The  canvas  depicted  a  still  life  by  Ce 
zanne  on  a  che valet  and  surrounded  by  Bon- 
nard,  Denis,  Redon,  Roussel,  Serusier,  Vuillard, 
Mellerio,  and  Vollard.  Himself  (as  they  say 
in  Irish)  is  shown  standing  and  apparently  un 
happy,  embarrassed.  Then  came  the  brusque 
apotheosis  of  1904  at  the  Autumn  Salon,  the 
most  revelatory  of  his  unique  gift  thus  far 
made.  Puvis  de  Chavannes  had  a  special 
Salle,  so  had  Eugene  Carriere;  Cezanne  held 
the  place  of  honour.  The  critical  press  was 
hostile  or  half-hearted.  Poor  Cezanne,  with 
his  naive  vanity,  seemed  dazzled  by  the  up 
roarious  championship  of  "les  jeunes,"  and, 
to  give  him  credit  for  a  peasant-like  astuteness, 
he  was  rather  suspicious  and  always  on  his 
guard.  He  stolidly  accepted  the  frantic  hom 
age  of  the  youngsters,  looking  all  the  while 
like  a  bourgeois  Buddha.  In  The  Sun  of  1901, 
1904,  and  1906  (the  latter  the  year  of  his  death) 
appeared  my  articles  on  Cezanne,  among  the 

97 


THE  CASE  OF  PAUL  CfiZANNE 

first,  if  not  the  first,  that  were  printed  in  this 
country.  Since  then  he  has  been  hoisted  to 
the  stars  by  his  admirers,  and  with  him  have 
mounted  his  prices.  Why  not?  When  juxta 
posed  with  most  painters  his  pictures  make 
the  others  look  like  linoleum  or  papier-mache. 
He  did  not  occupy  himself,  as  did  Manet, 
with  the  manners,  ideas,  and  aspects  of  his 
generation.  In  the  classic  retort  of  Manet  he 
could  have  replied  to  those  who  taunted  him 
with  not  " finishing"  his  pictures:  "Sir,  I  am 
not  a  historical  painter."  Nor  need  we  be  dis 
concerted,  in  any  estimate  of  him,  by  the  de 
pressing  snobbery  of  collectors  who  don't  know 
B  from  a  bull's  foot,  but  who  go  off  at  half- 
trigger  when  a  hint  is  dropped  about  the  pos 
sibilities  of  a  painter  appreciating  in  a  pecuniary 
sense.  Cezanne  is  the  painting  idol  of  the 
hour,  as  were  Manet  and  Monet  a  decade  ago. 
These  fluctuations  must  not  distract  us,  be 
cause  Cabanel,  Bouguereau  and  Henner,  too, 
were  idolised  once  upon  a  time,  and  served  to 
make  a  millionaire's  holiday  by  hanging  in 
his  marble  bathroom.  It  is  the  undeniable 
truth  that  Cezanne  has  become  a  tower  of 
strength  in  the  eyes  of  the  younger  generation 
of  artists  which  intrigues  critical  fancy.  Sin 
cerity  is  strength;  Cezanne  is  sincere  to  the 
core;  but  even  stark  sincerity  does  not  neces 
sarily  imply  the  putting  forth  of  masterpieces. 
Before  he  attained  his  original,  synthetic  power 
he  patiently  studied  Delacroix,  Courbet,  and 


THE  CASE  OF  PAUL  CfiZANNE 

several  others.  He  achieved  at  times  the  foun- 
dational  structure  of  Courbet,  but  his  pictures, 
so  say  his  enemies,  are  sans  composition,  sans 
linear  pattern,  sans  personal  charm.  But  "  Pop 
ularity  is  for  dolls/'  cried  Emerson. 

Cezanne's  was  a  twilight  soul.  And  a  hu 
mourless  one.  His  early  modelling  in  paint 
was  quasi-structural.  Always  the  architectural 
sense,  though  his  rhythms  are  elliptical  at 
times  and  he  betrays  a  predilection  for  the 
asymmetrical.  Nevertheless,  a  man  who  has 
given  to  an  art  in  two  dimensions  the  illusion 
of  a  third;  tactile  values  are  here  raised  to  the 
nth  degree.  His  colour  is  personal  and  rhythmic. 
Huysmans  was  clairvoyant  when,  nearly  a  half- 
century  ago,  he  spoke  of  Cezanne's  work  as 
containing  the  prodromes  of  a  new  art.  He 
was  absorbed  in  the  handling  of  his  material, 
not  in  the  lyric,  dramatic,  anecdotic,  or  rhe 
torical  elements.  His  portraits  are  vital  and 
charged  with  character.  And  he  often  thinks 
profoundly  on  unimportant  matters. 

When  you  are  young  your  foreground  is  hud 
dled:  it  is  the  desire  for  more  space  that  begets" 
revolutionists;  not  unlike  a  big  man  elbowing 
his  way  in  a  crowd.  Laudable  then  are  all 
these  sporadic  outbursts;  and  while  a  creative 
talent  may  remain  provincial,  even  parochial, 
as  was  the  case  with  Cezanne,  a  critic  must  be 
cosmopolitan  or  nothing.  An  artist  may  stay 
rooted  in  his  own  bailiwick  his  life  long,  yet 
paint  like  an  angel;  but  a  provincial  critic  is 
99 


THE  CASE  OF  PAUL  CEZANNE 

a  contradiction  in  terms.  He  reminds  one  of  a 
razor  so  dull  that  it  can't  cut  butter.  Let  us 
therefore  be  hospitable  to  new  ideas;  even 
Cabanel  has  his  good  points. 

The  tang  of  the  town  is  not  in  Cezanne's 
portraits  of  places.  His  leaden  landscapes  do 
not  arouse  to  spontaneous  activity  a  jaded 
retina  fed  on  Fortuny,  Monticelli,  or  Monet. 
As  for  the  groups  of  bathing  women,  how  they 
must  wound  the  sensibility  of  George  Moore, 
Professor  of  Energy  at  the  University  of  Ero 
tica.  There  is  no  sex  appeal.  Merely  women 
in  their  natural  pelt.  It  is  related  of  the  Em 
press  Eugenie  that  in  front  of  Courbet's  Les 
Baigneuses  (Salon,  1853)  sne  asked:  "Est-ce 
aussi  une  percheronne  ?  "  Of  the  heavy-flanked 
Percheron  breed  of  horse  are  the  ladies  on  the 
canvases  of  Cezanne.  The  remark  of  the  Em 
press  appealed  to  the  truculent  vanity  of  Cour- 
bet.  It  might  not  have  pleased  Cezanne.  With 
beauty,  academic  or  operatic,  he  had  no  traffic. 
If  you  don't  care  for  his  graceless  nudes  you 
may  console  yourself  that  there  is  no  disputing 
tastes  —  with  the  tasteless.  They  are  uglier 
than  the  females  of  Degas,  and  twice  as  truth 
ful. 

We  have  seen  some  of  his  still-life  pieces  so 
acid  in  tonal  quality  as  to  suggest  that  divine 
dissonance  produced  on  the  palate  by  a  slightly 
stale  oyster,  or  akin  to  the  rancid  note  of  an 
oboe  in  a  score  by  Stravinski.  But  what  thrice- 
subtle  sonorities,  what  colour  chords  are  in  his 
100 


THE   CASE  OF  PAUL  CEZANJNTE 


best  work.  I  once  wrote  in  the  Promenades  of 
an  Impressionist  that  his  fruits  and  vegetables 
savour  of  the  earth.  Chardin  interprets  still- 
life  with  realistic  beauty;  when  he  painted  an 
onion  it  revealed  a  certain  grace.  Vollon  would 
have  dramatised  it.  When  Cezanne  painted 
one  you  smelt  it.  A  feeble  witticism,  to  be 
sure,  but  it  registered  the  reaction  on  the  sound 
ing-board  of  my  sensibility. 

The  supreme  technical  qualities  in  Cezanne 
are  volume,  ponderability,  and  an  entrancing 
colour  scheme.  What's  the  use  of  asking  whether 
he  is  a  "sound"  draughtsman?  He  is  a  master 
of  edges  and  a  magician  of  tonalities.  Huys- 
mans  spoke  of  his  defective  eyesight;  but  dis 
ease  boasts  its  discoveries,  as  well  as  health. 
The  abnormal  vision  of  Cezanne  gave  him 
glimpses  of  a  "reality"  denied  to  other  painters. 
He  advised  Emile  Bernard  to  look  for  the  con 
trasts  and  correspondences  of  tones.  He  prac 
tised  what  he  preached.  No  painter  was  so 
little  affected  by  personal  moods,  by  those 
variations  of  temperament  dear  to  the  artist. 
Had  Cezanne  the  "temperament"  that  he  was 
always  talking  about?  If  so  it  was  not  decora 
tive  in  the  accepted  sense.  An  unwearying 
experimenter,  he  seldom  "finished"  a  picture. 
His  morose  landscapes  were  usually  painted 
from  one  scene  near  his  home  at  Aix.  I  visited 
the  spot.  The  pictures  do  not  resemble  it; 
which  simply  means  that  Cezanne  had  the 
vision  and  I  had  not.  A  few  themes  with  poly- 
101 


THE  CASE  OF  PAUL  CfiZANNE 

phonic  variations  filled  his  simple  life.  Art 
submerged  by  the  apparatus.  And  he  had  the 
centripetal,  not  the  centrifugal  temperament. 

In  his  rigid,  intense  ignorance  there  was  no 
room  for  climate,  personal  charm,  not  even  for 
sunshine.  Think  of  the  blazing  blue  sky  and 
sun  of  Provence;  the  romantic,  semi  tropical  riot 
of  its  vegetation,  its  gamuts  of  green  and  scarlet, 
and  search  for  this  mellow  richness  and  misty 
golden  air  in  the  pictures  of  our  master.  You 
won't  find  them,  though  a  mystic  light  per 
meates  the  entire  series.  The  sallow-sublime. 
He  did  not  paint  portraits  of  Provence,  as  did 
Daudet  in  Numa  Roumestan,  or  Bizet  in  L'Ar- 
lesienne.  He  sought  for  profounder  meanings. 
The  superficial,  the  facile,  the  staccato,  and  the 
brilliant  repelled  him.  Not  that  he  was  an 
" abstract"  painter  —  as  the  jargon  goes.  He 
was  eminently  concrete.  He  plays  a  legitimate 
trompe-Pceil  on  the  optic  nerve.  His  is  not  a 
pictorial  illustration  of  Provence,  but  the  slow, 
patient  delineation  by  a  geologist  of  art  of  a 
certain  hill  on  old  Mother  Earth,  shamelessly 
exposing  her  bare  torso,  bald  rocky  pate,  and 
gravelled  feet.  The  illusion  is  not  to  be  escaped. 
As  drab  as  the  orchestration  of  Brahms,  and 
as  austere  in  linear  economy;  and  as  analytical 
as  Stendhal  or  Ibsen,  Cezanne  never  becomes 
truly  lyrical  except  in  his  still-life.  Upon  an 
apple  he  lavishes  his  palette  of  smothered 
jewels.  And,  as  all  things  are  relative,  an 
onion  for  him  is  as  beautiful  as  a  naked  woman, 
102 


THE   CASE  OF  PAUL  CEZANNE 

And  he  possesses  a  positive  genius  for  the  taste 
less. 

The  chiefest  misconception  of  Cezanne  is 
that  of  the  theoretical  fanatics  who  not  only 
proclaim  him  their  chief  of  school,  which  may 
be  true,  but  also  declare  him  to  be  the  greatest 
painter  that  ever  wielded  a  brush  since  the 
Byzantines.  The  nervous,  shrinking  man  I 
saw  at  Paris  would  have  been  astounded  at 
some  of  the  things  printed  since  his  death; 
while  he  yearned  for  the  publicity  of  the  official 
Salon  (as  did  Zola  for  a  seat  in  the  Academy) 
he  disliked  notoriety.  He  loved  work;  above 
all,  solitude.  He  took  with  him  a  fresh  batch 
of  canvases  every  morning  and  trudged  to  his 
pet  landscapes,  the  Motive  he  called  it,  and 
it  was  there  that  he  slaved  away  with  tech 
nical  heroism,  though  he  didn't  kill  himself 
with  his  labours  as  some  of  his  fervent  disciples 
have  asserted.  He  died  of  unromantic  diabetes. 
When  I  first  saw  him  he  was  a  queer,  sardonic 
old  gentleman  in  ill-fitting  clothes,  with  the 
shrewd,  suspicious  gaze  of  a  provincial  notary, 
A  rare  impersonality,  I  should  say. 

There  is  a  lot  of  inutile  talk  about  "signif 
icant  form"  by  propagandists  of  the  New 
Esthetic.  As  if  form  had  not  always  been 
significant.  No  one  can  deny  Cezanne's  pre 
occupation  with  form;  nor  Courbet's  either. 
Consider  the  Ornans  landscapes,  with  their 
sombre  flux  of  forest,  by  the  crassest  realist 
among  French,  painters  (he  seems  hopelessly 
103 


THE  CASE  OF  PAUL  CfiZANNE 

romantic  to  our  sharper  and  more  petulant 
modern  mode  of  envisaging  the  world);  there 
is  "significant  form,"  and  a  solid  structural 
sense.  But  Cezanne  quite  o'ercrows  Courbet 
in  his  feeling  for  the  massive.  Sometimes  you 
can't  see  the  ribs  because  of  the  skeleton. 

Goethe  has  told  us  that  because  of  his  lim 
itations  we  may  recognise  a  master.  The 
limitations  of  Paul  Cezanne  are  patent  to  all. 
He  is  a  profound  investigator,  and  if  he  did  not 
deem  it  wise  to  stray  far  from  the  territory  he 
called  his  own  then  we  should  not  complain, 
for  therein  he  was  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed. 
His  non-conformism  defines  his  genius.  Imagine 
reversing  musical  history  and  finding  Johann 
Sebastian  Bach  following  Richard  Strauss! 
The  idea  seems  monstrous.  Yet  this,  figura 
tively  speaking,  constitutes  the  case  of  Cezanne. 
He  arrived  after  the  classic,  romantic,  impres 
sionistic,  symbolic  schools.  He  is  a  primitive, 
not  made,  like  Puvis,  but  one  born  to  a  crabbed 
simplicity.  His  veiled,  cool  harmonies  some 
times  recall  the  throb  of  a  deep-bass  organ-pipe. 
Oppositional  splendour  is  there,  and  the  stained 
radiance  of  a  Bachian  chorale.  The  music 
flows  as  if  from  a  secret  spring. 

What  poet  asked:  "When  we  drive  out  from 
the  cloud  of  steam  majestical  white  horses,  are 
we  greater  than  the  first  men,  who  led  black 
ones  by  the  mane?"  Why  can't  we  be  truly 
catholic  in  our  taste?  The  heaven  of  art  con 
tains  many  mansions,  and  the  rainbow  more 
104 


THE  CASE  OF  PAUL  CfiZANNE 

colours  than  one.  Paul  Cezanne  will  be  re 
membered  as  a  painter  who  respected  his  ma 
terial,  and  as  a  painter,  pure  and  complex.  No 
man  who  wields  a  brush  need  wish  a  more  en 
during  epitaph. 


105 


CHAPTER  IX 
BRAHMSODY 

AFTER  Wagner  the  deluge?  No,  Johannes 
Brahms.  Wagner,  the  high  priest  of  the  music- 
drama;  a  great  scene-painter  in  tones.  Brahms, 
a  wrestler  with  the  Dwellers  on  the  Threshold 
of  the  Infinite;  a  musical  philosopher,  but  ever 
a  poet.  "Bach,  Beethoven,  and  Brahms," 
cried  Von  Billow;  but  he  forgot  Schumann. 
The  molten  tide  of  passion  and  extravagance 
that  swept  over  intellectual  Europe  threescore 
years  ago  bore  on  its  foaming  crest  Robert 
Schumann.  He  was  first  cousin  to  the  prince 
of  romancists,  Heinrich  Heine;  Heine,  who 
dipped  his  pen  in  honey  and  gall  and  sneered 
and  wept  in  the  same  couplet.  In  the  tangled, 
rich  underwood  of  Schumann  the  young  Brahms 
wandered.  There  he  heard  the  moon  sing  sil 
very,  and  the  leaves  rustle  rhythms  to  the 
heart-beats  of  lovers.  All  German  romance, 
fantasy,  passion  was  in  Schumann,  the  Schu 
mann  of  the  Papillons  and  the  Carneval. 
Brahms  walked  as  did  Dante,  with  the  Shades. 
Bach  guided  his  footsteps;  Beethoven  bade 
him  glance  aloft  at  the  stars.  And  Brahms 
had  for  his  legacy  polyphony,  form,  and  mas 
terful  harmonies.  In  his  music  the  formulist 
106 


BRAHMSODY 

finds  perfect  things.  Structurally  he  is  as  great 
as  Beethoven,  perhaps  greater.  His  architec 
tonic  is  superb.  His  melodic  content  is  his  own 
as  he  strides  in  stately  pomp  in  the  fugued 
Alexandrines  of  Bach.  Brahms  and  Browning. 
Brahms  and  Freedom.  Brahms  and  Now. 

The  romantic  infant  of  1832  died  of  intellec 
tual  anaemia,  leaving  the  world  as  a  legacy  one 
of  the  most  marvellous  groupings  of  genius 
since  Athens's  sky  carolled  azure  glances  to 
Pericles.  Then  came  the  revolution  of  1848, 
and  later  a  race  of  sewermen  sprang  up  from  the 
mud.  Flaubert,  his  face  turned  to  the  past, 
his  feet  to  the  future,  gazed  sorrowfully  at 
Carthage  and  wrote  an  epic  of  the  bourgeois. 
Zola  and  his  gang  delved  into  moral  cesspools, 
and  the  world  grew  aweary  of  the  malodor. 
Chopin  and  Schumann,  faint,  fading  flowers 
of  romanticism,  were  put  in  albums  where 
their  purple  harmonies  and  subtle  sayings  are 
pressed  into  sweet  twilight  forgetfulness.  Even 
Berlioz,  whose  orchestral  ozone  revivified  the 
scores  of  Wagner  and  Liszt;  even  mad  Hector, 
with  the  flaming  locks,  sounded  garishly  empty, 
brilliantly  superficial.  The  New  Man  had  ar 
rived.  A  short,  stocky  youth  played  his  sonata 
in  C,  his  Opus  I,  for  Liszt,  and  the  Magyar  of 
Weimar  returned  the  compliment  by  singing 
in  archangelic  tones  his  own  fantasy  in  B 
minor,  which  he  fondly  and  futilely  believed 
a  sonata.  Brahms  fell  asleep,  and  Liszt  was 
enraged.  But  how  symbolical  of  Brahms  to 
107 


BRAHMSODY 

fall  asleep  at  the  very  onset  of  his  career,  fall 
asleep  before  Liszt's  music.  It  is  the  new 
wearied  of  the  old,  the  young  fatigued  by  the 
garrulities  of  age.  It  is  sad.  It  is  wonderful. 
Brahms  is  of  to-day.  He  is  the  scientist  turned 
philosopher,  the  philosopher  turned  musician. 
If  he  were  not  a  great  composer  he  would  be  a 
great  biologist,  a  great  metaphysician.  There 
are  passages  in  his  music  in  which  I  detect  the 
philosopher  in  omphalic  meditation. 

Brahms  dreams  of  pure  white  staircases  that 
scale  the  Infinite.  A  dazzling,  dry  light  floods 
his  mind,  and  you  hear  the  rustling  of  wings 
—  wings  of  great,  terrifying  monsters;  hippo- 
grifs  of  horrid  mien;  hieroglyphic  faces,  faces 
with  stony  stare,  menace  your  imagination. 
He  can  bring  down  within  the  compass  of  the 
octave  moods  that  are  outside  the  pale  of  mor 
tals.  He  is  a  magician,  spectral  at  times,  yet 
his  songs  have  the  homely  lyric  fervour  and 
concision  of  Robert  Burns.  A  groper  after  the 
untoward,  shudders  at  certain  bars  in  his  F 
sharp  minor  sonata  and  weeps  with  the  moonlit 
tranquillity  in  the  slow  movement  of  the  F 
minor  sonata.  He  is  often  dull,  muddy-pated, 
obscure,  and  maddeningly  slow.  Then  a  rift 
of  lovely  music  wells  out  of  the  mist;  you  are 
enchanted  and  cry:  "Brahms,  master,  anoint 
again  with  thy  precious  melodic  chrism  our 
thirsty  eyelids!" 

Brahms  is  an  inexorable  formulist.  His 
four  symphonies,  his  three  piano  sonatas,  the 
108 


BRAHMSODY 

choral  works  and  chamber  music  —  are  they 
not  all  living  testimony  to  his  admirable  manage 
ment  of  masses?  He  is  not  a  great  colourist. 
For  him  the  pigments  of  Makart,  Wagner,  and 
Theophile  Gautier  are  as  naught.  Like  Puvis 
de  Chavannes,  he  is  a  Primitive.  Simple,  flat 
tints,  primary  and  cool,  are  superimposed  upon 
rhythmic  versatility  and  strenuousness  of 
thought.  Ideas,  noble,  profundity-embracing 
ideas  he  has.  He  says  great  things  in  a  great 
manner,  but  it  is  not  the  smart,  epigrammatic, 
scarlet,  flashing  style  of  your  little  man.  He 
disdains  racial  allusions.  He  is  German,  but 
a  planetary  Teuton.  You  seek  in  vain  for  the 
geographical  hints,  hintings  that  chain  Grieg 
to  the  map  of  Norway.  Brahms' s  melodies  are 
world-typical,  not  cabined  and  confined  to 
his  native  Hamburg.  This  largeness  of  ut 
terance,  lack  of  polish,  and  a  disregard  for  the 
politesse  of  his  art  do  not  endear  him  to  the 
unthinking.  Yet,  what  a  master  miniaturist 
he  is  in  his  little  piano  pieces,  his  Intermezzi. 
There  he  catches  the  tender  sigh  of  childhood 
or  the  intimate  flutterings  of  the  heart  stirred 
by  desire.  Feminine  he  is  as  no  woman  com 
poser;  and  virile  as  are  few  men.  The  sinister 
fury,  the  mocking,  drastic  fury  of  his  first 
rhapsodies  —  true  soul-tragedies  —  how  they 
unearthed  the  core  of  pessimism  in  our  age. 
Pessimist?  Yes,  but  yet  believer;  a  believer 
in  himself,  thus  a  believer  in  men  and  women. 
He  reminds  me  more  of  Browning  than  does 
109 


BRAHMSODY 

Schumann.  The  full-pulsed  humanity,  the 
dramatic  —  yes,  Brahms  is  dramatic,  not  the 
atric —  modes  of  analysis,  the  flow,  glow,  and 
relentless  tracking  to  their  ultimate  lair  of 
motives  is  Browning;  but  the  composer  never 
loses  his  grip  on  the  actualities  of  structure. 
After  Chopin,  Brahms  ?  He  gives  us  a  cooling, 
deep  draught  in  exchange  for  the  sugared  worm 
wood,  the  sweet,  exasperated  poison  of  the 
Polish  charmer.  A  great  sea  is  his  music,  and 
it  sings  about  the  base  of  that  mighty  mount 
we  call  Beethoven.  Brahms  takes  us  to  sub- 
terrane  depths;  Beethoven  is  for  the  heights. 
Strong  lungs  are  needed  for  the  company  of 
both  giants. 

Brahms,  the  surgeon  whose  scalpel  pierces 
the  aches  of  modern  soul-maladies.  Bard  and 
healer.  Beethoven  and  Brahms. 


no 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

A  MONUMENT  should  be  erected  to  the  mem 
ory  of  the  inventor  of  playing-cards  because 
he  did  something  toward  suppressing  the  free 
exchange  of  human  imbecility!  The  French 
man  Huysmans,  who  wrote  this  charming  senti 
ment,  was  not  necessarily  companionable.  He 
was  the  most  unpleasant  among  the  world's 
great  writers;  for  as  a  great  master  of  prose 
he  ranks  high  in  the  literature  of  his  country. 
His  detestation  of  the  mediocre  became  a  tor 
menting  fixed  idea.  Like  Flaubert,  a  neurotic, 
his  digestive  organs  in  a  dyspeptic  condition, 
Huysmans  pursued  the  disagreeable  with  the 
ardour  of  a  sportsman  tracking  game.  Why 
precisely  such  subjects  appealed  to  him  must 
be  left  to  the  truffle-hunters  of  degeneration. 
Swift  is  in  the  same  class,  but  Swift  enjoyed 
scarifying  his  Yahoos.  Huysmans  did  not. 
Nor  for  that  matter  did  Flaubert.  The  De 
Goncourts  have  told  us  in  their  copious  con 
fidences  the  agony  they  endured  when  digging 
for  documents.  Germinie  Lacerteux  was  pain 
ful  travail,  not  alone  because  of  the  tortuous 
style  it  demanded,  but  also  because  of  the 
author's  natural  repugnance  to  such  vulgar 
in 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

material.  They  were  aristocrats.  Huysmans 
came  of  a  solid  bourgeois  family;  Dutch  on 
the  paternal  side,  his  father  hailed  from  Breda, 
and  Parisian  on  the  distaff.  Therefore  he  might 
have  described  his  modest  surroundings  with 
less  acerbity  than  the  irritable  De  Goncourts. 
Such  was  not  the  case.  He  loathed  his  themes. 
He  was  unhappy  while  developing  them.  Per 
haps  the  clairvoyance  of  hatred,  which  may  be 
a  powerful  incentive,  forced  his  pen  to  the 
task.  But  the  fact  remains  that,  art  and  religion 
aside,  Huysmans  did  not  love  what  he  trans 
posed  from  life  to  his  marvellously  written 
pages.  His  was  a  veritable  ^Esthetic  of  the 
Ugly  and  Hateful.  Yet  he  possessed  a  nature 
sensitive  to  the  pathological  point.  And,  like 
Schopenhauer,  he  masked  this  undue  sensibility 
with  a  repelling  misanthrophy. 

In  a  study  of  him  by  his  disciple,  Gustave 
Coquiot,  Le  Vrai  J.-K.  Huysmans,  with  an 
etched  portrait  by  Raffaelli,  we  are  shown 
some  intimate  characteristics.  Huysmans  never 
beat  about  the  social  ambush,  but  freely  ex 
pressed  his  opinions  concerning  contemporaries; 
indeed,  a  phrase  of  the  Goncourts  might  have 
been  his,  "Je  vomis  mes  contemporains."  He 
has  been  called  an  "exasperated  Goncourt," 
which  is  putting  it  mildly.  However,  it  must 
not  be  supposed  that  he  was  a  roaring  egoist, 
hitting  out  blindly.  He  seems,  according  to 
the  account  of  Coquiot  and  Remy  de  Gour- 
mont,  to  have  been  an  unassuming  and  indus- 
112 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

trious  functionary  in  the  Ministry  of  the  In 
terior,  and  even  when  aroused  not  so  truculent 
as  sarcastic.  The  Dutch  and  Flemish  base  to 
his  temperament  endowed  him  with  consider 
able  phlegm;  he  was  never  demonstrative,  dis 
liked  effusiveness  in  life  and  literature,  and  only 
in  his  ironical  speech  lurked  the  distilled  bitter 
ness  of  his  prejudices.  He  had  many.  Yet, 
fearful  of  a  literary  career,  with  its  poverty  and 
disillusionments,  he  endured  the  ennui  and  fa 
tigues  of  thirty- two  years  of  office  work,  and,  a 
model  clerk,  he  was  decorated  when  he  left  his 
bureau  in  the  Ministry.  That  is,  decorated  for 
his  zeal  and  punctuality,  not  for  his  books. 
Numberless  are  the  jokes  made  about  the  Le 
gion  of  Honour,  yet  none  contain  such  subacid 
irony  as  this  one.  Huysmans  the  irascible 
among  decorated  philistines ! 

"Perhaps  it  is  only  a  stupid  book  that  some 
one  has  mentioned,  or  a  stupid  woman;  as  he 
speaks  the  book  looms  up  before  one,  becomes 
monstrous  in  its  dulness,  a  masterpiece  and  a 
miracle  of  imbecility;  the  unimportant  little 
woman  grows  into  a  slow  horror  before  your 
eyes.  It  is  always  the  unpleasant  aspect  of 
things  that  he  seizes,  but  the  intensity  of  his 
revolt  from  that  unpleasantness  brings  a  touch 
of  the  sublime  into  the  very  expression  of  his 
disgust.  Every  sentence  is  an  epigram,  and 
every  epigram  slaughters  a  reputation  or  an 
idea.  He  speaks  with  an  accent  as  of  pained 
surprise,  and  amused  look  of  contempt,  so  pro- 
"3 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

found  that  it  becomes  almost  pity,  for  human 
imbecility."  This  tiny  etched  portrait  is  by 
Mr.  Arthur  Symons,  who  practically  intro 
duced  Huysmans  to  English-speaking  letters. 

Pitiless  he  was,  as  pitiless  to  himself  as  to 
others.  Yet  Coquiot  found  him  entertaining 
betimes,  while  De  Gourmont  scoffs  at  his  tales 
of  stomachic  woe.  Huysmans,  he  says,  ate 
heartily  in  the  very  restaurants  he  so  viciously 
abuses  throughout  that  Iliad  of  indigestion,  A 
Vau-1'Eau.  He  was  the  M.  Folantin,  the  un- 
heroic  hero;  as  he  was  the  unpatriotic  hero  of 
The  Knapsack  —  published  in  Zola's  collection, 
Les  Soirees  de  Medan.  In  all  his  books  he  fig 
ures.  Jules  Lemaitre  describes  them  collectively 
as:  a  young  man  with  the  dysentery;  a  young 
man  who  disliked  single  blessedness  —  the  critic 
used  a  stronger  expression;  a  man  who  couldn't 
get  a  beefsteak  in  Paris  cooked  as  he  wanted  it, 
and  a  man  who  liked  to  read  the  chaste  chron 
icle  of  Gilles  de  Rais,  otherwise  known  as  the 
sadistic  Bluebeard  —  these  comprise  the  charac 
ters  of  Huysmans.  After  his  conversion  he  made 
amends,  though  he  was  always  the  atrabilious 
faultfinder. 

No  matter.  One  of  the  most  notable  of  art 
critics  in  a  city  abundantly  supplied  with  crit 
icism  was  this  same  Huysmans.  His  critical 
achievement  may  outlive  his  fiction  and  his 
religious  confessions.  He  preferred  Certains 
to  his  other  books.  It  is  written  in  his  most 
astounding  and  captivating  style.  The  por- 
114 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

traits  of  certain  artists  in  this  unique  volume 
recite  the  history  of  the  critic's  acuity  and 
clairvoyance.  He  first  announced  Edgar  Degas 
as  the  "greatest  artist  we  possess  to-day  in 
France.'7  He  discovered  Odilon  Redon,  Raf- 
faelli,  Forain,  and  wrote  of  Gustave  Moreau 
in  enamelled  prose.  Whistler,  Cheret,  Pissarro, 
Gauguin  were  praised  by  him  before  they  had 
attracted  the  pontifical  disdain  of  academic 
criticism.  To  Rops  he  consecrated  some  ex 
traordinary  pages,  for  Huysmans  was  a  verbal 
virtuoso  superior  to  any  of  the  artists  he  praised 
and  later  he  cynically  confessed  to  Coquiot 
that  he  didn't  highly  estimate  the  Belgian 
etcher,  but  found  in  him  excellent  pasture  for 
his  own  picture-making  pen.  In  a  word,  the 
erotic  Rops  attracted  him  more  than  Rops 
the  every-day  craftsman,  and  rightly  enough. 
With  the  Japanese  this  erotic  side  of  Rops  is 
only  for  the  connoisseur. 

Huysmans  said  some  just  things  of  Whistler, 
and  he  was  the  first  critic  to  salute  the  rising 
star  of  Paul  Cezanne,  who,  he  asserts,  con 
tributed  more  to  the  impressionist  movement 
than  Manet;  and  one  who  also  discovered  the 
prodromes  of  a  new  art.  (This  was  as  early 
as  1877.)  He  found  the  Cezanne  still-life  bru 
tally  real;  above  all,  a  preoccupation  with 
forms  and  "  edges,"  that  betrayed  this  painter's 
tendency  toward  a  novel  synthesis.  But  ac 
cording  to  Coquiot,  Huysmans  saw  through 
the  hole  in  the  Cezanne  millstone.  The  Pro- 
"5 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

venial  was  a  ruse,  an  intrigant,  and  a  money- 
grubber  in  his  old  age,  and  proved  his  plebeian 
ancestry.  His  father  began  barber,  ended 
banker,  shaved  faces  as  well  as  notes,  bled  his 
clientele  in  both  professions. 

American  collectors  of  art  Huysmans  treated 
as  brigands.  In  the  matter  of  the  classical 
painters  and  sculptors  he  manifested  himself 
intransigent.  He  adored  the  Flemish  primi 
tives,  the  School  of  Cologne  and  a  few  of  the 
Italian  primitives,  but  with  the  exception  of 
Fra  Angelico  found  their  types  detestingly  an 
drogynous.  (He  employed  a  more  pungent 
term.)  In  the  Low  Countries  are  the  true 
primitives,  he  declared,  as  the  only  mysticism 
is  that  of  John  of  the  Cross  and  Saint  Teresa. 
Matthias  Griinewald's  Crucifixion  is  his  idol. 
Huysman's  opinion  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes  in 
Certains  is  stimulating  though  inconclusive. 
For  him  Puvis  tries  to  dance  a  rigaudon  at  a 
Requiem  mass  !  But  as  a  descendant  of  Cornells 
Huysmans,  the  Parisian  sees  with  almost  an 
abnormal  vision,  and  in  prose  paints  like  a 
veritable  Fleming.  Little  wonder  De  Gour- 
mont  called  him  an  "eye."  His  prose  is  ad 
dressed  to  the  eye,  rather  than  to  the  ear.  Sump 
tuous  in  colouring,  its  rhythmic  movement  is 
pompous,  its  tone  hieratic;  and  he  so  manipu 
lated  it  that  it  was  a  perfect  medium  to  de 
pict  the  Paris  of  his  time. 

Huysmans  did  not  think  too  highly  of  his 
brothers  under  the  same  literary  yoke.  His 
116 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

opinions  are  concise.  Coquiot  prints  them. 
Despite  his  affiliations  with  Zola  and  the  natural 
istic  group,  Huysmans  soon  tired  of  his  chief, 
tired  of  his  theories,  his  crude  notions  of  art  and 
life.  He  definitely  broke  away  from  him  in  his 
famous  preface  to  La  Bas.  And  it  should  not  be 
forgotten  that  he  was  the  first  to  celebrate  in 
fiction,  if  celebration  it  may  be  called,  the 
prostitute  of  modern  Paris.  Marthe  appeared 
a  year  earlier  than  either  Nana  or  La  Fille 
Elise,  the  latter  by  Edmond  de  Goncourt.  But 
he  sickened  of  the  sewer  fiction  only  to  dive 
deeper  in  the  mediaeval  vileness  of  La  Bas. 
He  met  Goncourt  through  the  offices  of  Leon 
Cladel,  a  writer  little  known  to  our  generation. 
Huysmans  was  a  friend  in  need  to  Villiers  de 
PIsle  Adam,  and  frequented  the  eccentric  com 
pany  of  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  in  whose  apart 
ment  he  said  that  Paul  Bourget  was  apt  to 
pop  out  of  a  closet  or  a  cloak.  He  did  not  care 
for  that  "Cherubin  of  the  Duchesses  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Antoine." 

Of  Corneille,  Racine,  Moliere,  Dante,  Schiller, 
and  Goethe  he  spoke  with  ill-concealed  con 
tempt.  Raseurs,  all  these  "solemn  pontiffs." 
His  major  detestation  was  Voltaire.  Balzac, 
the  prodigious  novelist,  left  him  unstirred. 
"Not  an  artistic  epithet "  in  his  edition,  fifty 
volumes  long,  and  not  a  novelist  easy  to  re 
read.  Theophile  Gautier  did  not  attract  him; 
he  found  the  impeccable  master  cold  and  diluted; 
so  many  pages  published  to  say  nothing !  Huys- 

117 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

mans  believed  in  "saying  something,"  and  for 
him  it  usually  meant  something  disagreeable, 
or  else  contrary  to  accepted  belief.  He  hated 
the  theatre  and  his  opinions  of  Scribe,  Augier, 
Dumas  fils,  Sardou,  Feuillet,  and  of  the  "old 
pedant"  Sarcey,  are  savage.  He  had  no  feel 
ing  for  the  footlights,  and  not  possessing  much 
imagination  and  deficient  in  what  are  called 
"general  ideas"  (that  is,  the  stereotyped 
commonplaces  of  journalism  and  tenth-rate 
"thinkers"),  he  revolted  at  the  lean  or  hys 
terical  stuff  manufactured  by  dramatists;  plays 
that  are  neither  life  nor  literature,  nor  even 
theatrical. 

Baudelaire,  the  profoundest  of  soul-explorers 
in  the  poetical  Parnassus  of  that  period, 
appealed  to  Huysmans.  He  admired,  as  well 
he  might,  Flaubert,  but  found  his  company 
intolerable.  That  giant  from  Normandy  was 
too  healthy  for  the  slender  overwrought  Pari 
sian.  He  had,  so  said  Huysmans,  the  manners 
of  a  traveling  salesman  —  Balzac's  Gaudissart 
-and  would  play  his  own  Homais,  being  ad 
dicted  to  punning  and  disconcerting  joking. 
Poor  Flaubert!  Poorer  Huysmans !  Such  sensi 
bility  as  his  must  have  been  a  daily  torture. 
Victor  Hugo  was  "an  incomparable  trumpet, 
an  epic  of  the  garde  nationale." 

From  Edmond  de  Goncourt  with  his  con 
descending  airs  of  "un  vieux  maitre,"  he  escaped 
by  flight;  and  Turgenev,  most  amiable  of  great 
men,  was  a  tedious  Russian,  "a  spigot  of  tepid 
118 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

water  always  flowing. "  If  Verlaine  had  been 
penned  up  in  hospital  or  prison  it  would  have 
been  for  the  greater  glory  of  French  poetry. 
Jules  Laforgue,  "Quelle  joie !"  Remy  de  Gour- 
mont:  "I  wrote  a  preface  to  one  of  his  books" 
(Le  Latin  mystique,).  "That  says  enough." 
Marcel  Provost:  "Le  jeune  premier  des  romans 
de  Georges  Ohnet,"  which  isn't  bad.  He  rather 
evades  a  definite  judgment  of  Anatole  France: 
"II  s'y  connait,  le  gaillard;  mais  ce  qu'il  se 
defile!"  The  style  and  thought  of  these  two 
remarkable  artists  is  antipodal.  He  calls 
Maurice  Barres  "Lord  Beaconsfield,"  a  high 
compliment  to  that  exquisite  writer's  political 
attainments.  He  sums  up  Ferdinand  Brunetiere 
as  "constipe,"  a  sound  definition  of  a  shrewd, 
unsympathetic  critic.  Naturally  women  writers, 
"little  geese,"  are  not  spared  by  this  waspish 
misogynist,  whose  intense,  pessimistic  vision  de 
formed  ideas  as  well  as  objects. 

In  A  Rebours  there  is  the  account  of  a  trip 
to  London  by  the  anagmic  hero,  Des  Esseintes. 
He  gets  no  further  than  one  of  the  English 
taverns  opposite  the  Gare  Saint-Lazare.  It 
is  risible,  this  episode;  Huysmans  could  dis 
play  verve  and  a  sort  of  grim  humour  when  he 
wished.  Brunetiere,  who  was  serious  to  so 
lemnity,  and  lacked  a  funny  bone,  declared 
that  Huysmans  borrowed  the  incident  from  a 
popular  vaudeville,  Le  Voyage  a  Dieppe,  by 
Fulgence  and  Wafflard.  He  need  not  have 
gone  so  far  afield,  for  in  the  life  of  Baudelaire 
119 


THE  OPINIONS  OF  J.-K.  HUYSMANS 

by  the  Crepets  (Eugene  and  Jacques)  there  is 
the  genesis  of  the  story.  To  become  better 
acquainted  with  English  speech  and  manners, 
Baudelaire  frequented  an  English  tavern  in 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  where  he  drank  whisky, 
read  Punch,  and  also  sought  the  company  of 
English  grooms  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Honore. 
Huysmans  loved  Baudelaire  as  much  as  Brune- 
tiere  detested  him.  There  is  no  doubt  he  knew 
this  thoroughly  Baudelairian  anecdote.  A  per 
verse  comet  in  the  firmament  of  French  litera 
ture,  Joris-Karl  Huysmans  will  always  be  more 
admired  than  loved. 


120 


CHAPTER  XI 

STYLE  AND  RHYTHM  IN 
ENGLISH   PROSE 


STYLISTS  in  prose  are  privileged  persons. 
They  may  write  nonsense  and  escape  the  casti- 
gation  of  prudish  pedants;  or,  dealing  with 
cryptic  subjects,  they  can  win  the  favour  of 
the  unthinking;  witness,  in  the  brain-carpentry 
of  metaphysics,  say,  the  verbal  manoeuvres  of 
three  such  lucid  though  disparate  thinkers  as 
Schopenhauer,  Nietzsche  and  William  James. 
The  names  of  these  three  writers  are  .adduced 
as  evidence  that  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  foggy 
of  style  even  when  dealing  with  abstract  ideas. 
And  Germany  has  long  been  the  Nibelheim  of 
philosophy;  need  we  mention  Hegel,  whose 
commentators  have  made  his  meanings  thrice- 
confounded?  Style  in  literature  is  an  anti 
septic.  It  may  embalm  foolish  flies  in  its  amber, 
and  it  is  a  brevet  of  immortality  —  that  is,  as 
immortality  goes;  a  brief  thing,  but  a  man's 
boast.  When  the  shoeblack  part  of  the  affair 
is  over  and  done  with,  the  grammar,  which  was 
made  for  schoolmarms  in  male  garb,  and  the 
shining  rhetoric,  what  remains?  The  answer 
is  eternal:  Style  cannot  be  taught.  A  good 
style  is  direct,  plain,  and  simple.  The  writer's 
121 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

keyboard  is  that  humble  camel  the  dictionary. 
Style,  being  concerned  with  the  process  of 
movement,  has  nothing  to  do  with  results,  says 
one  authority.  And  an  impertinent  collusion 
on  the  part  of  the  writer  with  his  own  indi 
vidual  ty  does  not  always  constitute  style; 
for  individual  opinion  is  virtually  private 
opinion,  notwithstanding  its  appearance  in 
editions  half  a  hundred  long;  Sainte-Beuve 
and  De  Quincey  here  occur  to  the  memory. 
Men  change;  mankind  never. 

Too  close  imitation  of  the  masters  has  its 
dangers  for  the  novice.  Apes  and  peacocks 
beset  the  way.  Stevenson's  prose  style  is 
highly  synthesised  and  a  mosaic  of  dead  men's 
manner.  He  has  no  esoteric  message  beyond 
the  expression  of  his  sprite-like,  whimsical  per 
sonality,  and  this  expression  is,  in  the  main, 
consummate.  The  lion  in  his  pathway  is  the 
thinness  of  his  intellectual  processes;  as  in 
De  Quincey's  case,  a  master  of  the  English 
language  beyond  compare,  who  in  the  region 
of  pure  speculation  often  goes  sadly  limping; 
his  criticism  of  Kant  proves  it.  But  a  music- 
maker  in  our  written  speech,  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  is  the  supreme  mocking-bird  in 
English  literature.  He  overplayed  the  sedulous 
imitator.  John  Jay  Chapman  in  a  brilliant 
essay  has  traced  the  progress  of  this  prose 
pilgrim,  a  professional  stylist  as  well  as  a  pro 
fessional  invalid.  The  American  critic  registers 
the  variations  in  style  and  sensibility  of  the 
122 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

Scotsman,  who  did  not  always  demonstrate  in 
his  writing  the  fundamental  idea  that  the  sole 
exponent  of  sensibility  is  analytic  power.  He 
drew  freely  on  all  his  predecessors,  and  his 
personal  charm  exhibits  the  "glue  of  unanimity," 
as  old  Boethius  would  say.  Mr.  Chapman 
quotes  a  passage  supposedly  from  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  beginning,  "Time  sadly  overcometh 
all  things,"  which  is  not  to  be  found  in  his 
collected  writings.  Yet  it  is  apropos  because, 
like  Stevenson's  prose,  it  is  from  the  crucible 
of  an  alchemist,  though  at  the  time  Mr.  Chap 
man  quoted  it  was  not  known  to  be  a  clever 
Liverpudlian  forgery.  Since  then,  after  con 
siderable  controversy,  the  paragraph  in  question 
has  been  shown  as  the  fabrication  of  a  Liver 
pool  man  of  letters,  whose  name  we  have  for 
gotten.  But  it  suggests,  does  this  false  Browne, 
that  good  prose  may  be  successfully  simulated, 
though  essentials  be  missing. 

If  style  cannot  be  imparted,  what,  then,  is 
the  next  best  thing  to  do,  after  a  close  study 
of  the  masters?  We  should  say,  go  in  a  chas 
tened  mood  to  the  nearest  newspaper  office 
and  apply  for  a  humble  position  on  its  staff. 
Then  one  will  come  to  grips  with  life,  the  pace 
maker  of  style.  There  is  a  lot  of  pompous 
advice  emitted  by  the  college  professor  —  the 
Eternal  Sophomore  —  about  fleeing  "journal 
ese";  whereas  it  is  in  the  daily  press,  whether 
New  York,  Paris,  Vienna,  or  London,  that  one 
may  find  the  soundest,  most  succinct  prose, 
123 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

prose  stripped  of  superfluous  ornament,  prose 
bare  to  the  bone,  and  in  fighting  trim.  But  not 
elevated  prose,  " numerous"  prose,  as  Quin- 
tilian  hath  it.  For  the  supreme  harmony  of 
English  prose  we  must  go  to  the  Bible  (the 
Authorised,  not  the  Revised,  the  latter  manu 
factured  by  "the  persons  called  revisers,"  as 
George  Saintsbury  bluntly  describes  them); 
to  Shakespeare,  Jeremy  Taylor,  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  Walter  Raleigh,  Milton,  De  Quincey, 
Ruskin,  Swinburne,  Cardinal  Newman,  Pater, 
and  Arthur  Symons.  And  not  forgetting  the 
sweet  intimacy  of  Charles  Lamb,  the  sly  charm 
of  Max  Beerbohm,  or  the  harmonious  and 
imaginative  prose  of  W.  H.  Hudson,  whose 
Green  Mansions  recalls  the  Chateaubriand  of 
Atala,  without  its  hateful  note  of  morbid  ego 
tism. 

Nor  are  the  exponents  of  the  grand  manner, 
of  an  ornate  style,  to  be  patterned  after.  If 
elevation  of  theme  is  not  present,  then  the  peril 
of  "fine  writing"  is  scarcely  to  be  avoided. 
Better  follow  such  writers  as  Bacon,  Bunyan, 
Hobbes,  Swift  in  preference.  Or  the  Augustan 
group,  Dryden,  Addison,  Shaftesbury,  and  Tem 
ple.  But  Doctor  Johnson,  Burke  and  Gibbon 
are  not  models  for  the  beginner,  any  more  than 
the  orotund  prose  of  Bossuet,  the  musical 
utterance  of  Chateaubriand,  or  the  dramatic 
prose  of  Hugo  are  safe  models  for  French  stu 
dents.  The  rich  continence  of  Flaubert,  the 
stippled  concision  of  Merimee  or  the  dry-sherry 
124 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

wit  of  Voltaire  are  surer  guides.  And  the 
urbane  ease  and  flowing  rhythms  of  Thackeray 
are  preferable  to  the  baphometic  verbal  bap 
tisms  of  Carlyle  the  Boanerges. 

Yet  what  sweet  temptations  are  to  be  found 
in  the  golden  age  of  English  prose,  beginning 
with  the  evocation  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  "0 
eloquent,  just,  and  mighty  death;  whom  none 
jcould  advise,  thou  hast  persuaded";  surely 
not  far  beneath  the  magnificent  prose  of  the 
sixtieth  chapter  of  Isaiah  in  the  Authorised, 
" Arise,  shine;  for  thy  light  is  come,  and  the 
glory  of  the  Lord  is  risen  unto  thee,"  which 
is  so  mighty  in  rhythm  that  even  those  "  dole- 
fullest  of  creatures  .  .  .  utterly  ignorant  of 
English  literature,  the  Revisers  of  1870-85, 
hardly  dared  to  touch  at  all,"  blandly  remarks 
Professor  Saintsbury.  And  to  balance  the 
famous  "Now  since  these  dead  bones"  of  Sir 
Thomas,  there  is  the  tender  coda  to  Sir  William 
Temple's  Use  of  Poetry  and  Music,  "When 
all  is  done,  human  life  is  at  the  greatest  and 
best."  Those  long,  sweeping  phrases,  drum 
ming  with  melody  and  cadences,  like  the  hum 
ming  of  slow,  uplifting  walls  of  water  tumbling 
on  sullen  strands,  composed  by  the  masters 
of  that  "other  harmony  of  prose,"  are  not  mere 
"purple  panels"  but  music  made  by  immor 
tals.  (And  I  am  convinced  that  if  R.  L.  S.  were 
alive  and  condemned  to  read  this  last  sentence 
of  mine,  with  its  monotonous  "run"  of  M's, 
he  would  condemn  it.)  Consider  Milton  and 
125 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

his  majestic  evocation:  "Methinks  I  see  in 
my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation  arousing 
herself,  ...  an  eagle  mewing  her  mighty 
youth  .  .  ."  and  then  fall  down  and  worship, 
for  we  are  in  the  holy  of  holies.  Stevenson 
preferred  the  passage,  "I  cannot  praise  a  fugi 
tive  and  cloistered  virtue,"  and  who  shall  gain 
say  him?  And  Stevenson  has  written  a  most 
inspiring  study  of  the  Technical  Elements  of 
Style  in  Literature,  to  be  found  in  the  Bio 
graphical  Edition.  In  it  he  calls  the  Macaulay 
"an  incomparable  dauber"  for  running  the 
letter  "k"  through  a  paragraph,  and  in  it  he 
sets  forth  in  his  chastened  and  classic  style  the 
ineluctable  (Henry  James  revived  this  pretty 
word)  perils  of  prose.  Also  its  fascinations. 
"The  prose  writer,"  he  says,  "must  keep  his 
phrases  large,  rhythmical,  comely,  without 
letting  them  fall  into  the  strictly  metrical; 
harmonious  in  diversity,  musical  in  the  mouth, 
in  texture  woven  into  committed  phrases  and 
rounded  periods."  The  stylist  may  vault  airily 
into  the  saddle  of  logic,  or  in  the  delicate  re 
ticulation  of  his  silver-fire  paragraphs  he  may 
take,  as  an  exemplar,  John  Henry  Newman. 

Stevenson  is  a  perfectionist,  and  that  way 
lies  madness  for  all  save  a  few  valiant  spirits. 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  formerly  Professor  Raleigh, 
has  written  a  crystal-clear  study  on  Style,  an 
essay  of  moment  because  in  the  writing  thereof 
he  preaches  what  he  practises.  He  confesses 
that  "inanity  dogs  the  footsteps  of  the  classic 
126 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

tradition,"  and  that  " words  must  change  to 
live,  and  a  word  once  fixed  becomes  useless. 
.  .  .  This  is  the  error  of  the  classical  creed, 
to  imagine  that  in  a  fleeting  world,  where  the 
quickest  eye  can  never  see  the  same  thing 
twice,  and  a  deed  once  done  can  never  be  re 
peated,  language  alone  should  be  capable  of 
fixity  and  finality."  The  Flaubertian  crux. 
Nevertheless,  Flaubert  could  write  of  style  in 
a  fluid,  impressionistic  way:  "A  style  .  .  . 
which  will  be  as  rhythmic  as  verse,  as  precise 
as  the  language  of  science,  which  will  have 
undulations,  modulations,  like  those  of  a  violon 
cello,  flashes  of  fire.  A  style  which  would  enter 
into  the  idea  like  the  stroke  of  a  stiletto,  .  .  . 
all  the  combinations  of  prosody  have  been 
made,  those  of  prose  are  still  to  make."  Flau 
bert  was  not  obsessed  by  the  "  unique  word," 
but  by  a  style  which  is  merged  in  the  idea;  as 
the  melodic  and  harmonic  phrases  of  Richard 
Wagner  were  born  simultaneously  and  clothed 
in  the  appropriate  orchestral  colours.  Perhaps 
the  cadenced  prose  of  Pater,  with  its  multiple 
resonance  and  languorous  rhythms,  may  be 
a  sort  of  sublimated  chess-game,  as  Saintsbury 
more  than  hints;  yet,  what  a  fair  field  for  his 
carved  ivory  pieces.  His  undulating  and  iri 
descent  periods  are  like  the  solemn  sound  of 
organ  music  accompanied .  from  afar  by  a  sym 
phony  of  flutes,  peacocks,  and  promegranates. 
No  wonder  Stevenson  pronounces  French 
prose  a  finer  art  than  English,  though  admitting 
127 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

that  in  the  richer,  denser  harmonies  of  English 
its  native  writers  find  at  first  hand  the  very 
quality  so  eagerly  sought  for  by  Flaubert. 
French  is  a  logical  language,  one  of  distinction 
and  clarity,  and  one  in  which  metre  never  in 
trudes,  but  it  lacks  the  overtones  of  our  mother 
speech.  The  English  shares  in  common  with 
the  Russian  the  art  of  awakening  feelings  and 
thoughts  by  the  resonance  of  words,  which 
seem  to  be  written  not  in  length  but  in  depth, 
and  then  are  lost  in  faint  reverberations. 

But  artistic  prose,  chiselled  prose,  is  a  neg 
ligible  quantity  nowadays.  It  was  all  very 
well  in  the  more  spacious  tunes  of  linkboys, 
sedan-chairs,  and  bag-wigs,  but  with  the  typist 
cutting  one's  phrases  into  angular  fragments, 
with  the  soil  at  our  heels  saturated  in  slang, 
what  hope  is  there  for  assonance,  variety  in 
rhythm,  and  the  sonorous  cadences  of  prose? 
Write  "naturally,"  we  are  told.  Properly 
speaking,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  "natural 
style. "  Even  Newman,  master  of  the  pellucid, 
effortless  phrase,  confesses  to  laborious  days  of 
correction,  and  he  wrote  with  the  idea  upper 
most  and  with  no  thought  of  style,  so-called. 
Abraham  Lincoln  nourished  his  lonely  soul  on 
the  Bible  and  Bunyan.  He  is  a  writer  of  simple 
yet  elevated  prose,  without  parallel  in  our 
native  literature  other  than  Emerson.  Haw 
thorne  and  Poe  wrote  in  the  key  of  classic 
prose;  while  Walt  Whitman's  jigsaw  jingle  is 
the  ultimate  deliquescence  of  prose  form.  For 
128 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

practical  every-day  needs  the  eighteenth-cen 
tury  prose  men  are  the  best  to  follow.  But  the 
Bible  is  the  Golden  Book  of  English  prose. 

Quintilian  wrote:  "We  cannot  even  speak 
except  in  longs  and  shorts,  and  longs  and 
shorts  are  the  material  of  feet."  All  personal 
prose  should  go  to  a  tune  of  its  own.  The 
curious  are  recommended  to  the  monumental 
work  of  George  Saintsbury,  A  History  of  Eng 
lish  Prose  Rhythm.  Prose  may  be  anything 
else,  but  it  must  not  be  bad  blank  verse. 
" Numerous"  as  to  rhythms,  but  with  no  hint 
of  balance,  in  the  metrical  sense;  without 
rhythm  it  is  not  prose  at  all.  Professor  Oliver 
Elton  has  set  this  forth  with  admirable  lucidity 
in  his  English  Prose  Numbers.  He  also  analyses 
a  page  from  The  Golden  Bowl  of  Henry  James, 
discovering  new  beauties  of  phrasing  and  subtle 
cadences  in  the  prose  of  this  writer.  Professor 
Saintsbury's  study  is  the  authoritative  one 
among  its  fellows.  Walter  Pater's  essay  on 
Style  is  honeycombed  with  involutions  and 
preciosity.  When  On  the  Art  of  Writing,  by 
Arthur  Quiller-Couch,  appeared  we  followed 
Hazlitt's  advice  and  reread  an  old  book,  Eng 
lish  Composition,  by  Professor  Barrett  Wendell, 
and  with  more  pleasure  and  profit  than  followed 
the  later  perusal  of  the  Cornish  novelist's  lec 
tures. 

He  warns  against  jargon.  But  the  seven 
arts,  science,  society,  medicine,  politics,  relig 
ion,  have  each  their  jargon.  Not  music- 
129 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

criticism,  not  baseball,  are  so  painfully  "  jar 
gonised"  as  metaphysics.  Jargon  is  the  fly  in 
the  ointment  of  every  critic.  Even  the  worthy 
fellow  of  Jesus  College,  Sir  Arthur  himself, 
does  not  altogether  escape  it.  On  page  23  of 
his  Inaugural  Address  he  speaks  of  "loose, 
discinct  talk."  "Distinct"  is  good,  but  "un- 
girded"  is  better  because  it  is  not  obsolete, 
and  it  is  more  sonorous  and  Saxon.  On  page 
42  we  stumble  against  "suppeditate"  and 
gnash  our  teeth.  After  finishing  the  book  the 
timid  neophyte  will  be  apt  to  lay  the  flattering 
unction  to  his  soul  that  he  is  a  born  stylist, 
like  the  surprised  Mr.  Jourdain,  who  spoke 
prose  so  many  years  without  knowing  it. 


II 


Fancy  a  tall,  imposing  man,  in  the  middle 
years,  standing  before  a  music-desk,  humming 
and  beating  time.  His  grey,  lion-like  mane  is 
in  disorder;  his  large  eyes,  pools  of  blue  light, 
gleam  with  excitement.  The  colour  of  his 
face  is  reddish,  the  blood  mounts  easily  to  his 
head,  a  prophetic  sign  of  his  death  by  apo 
plexy.  It  is  Gustave  Flaubert  in  his  study  at 
Croisset,  a  few  miles  down  the  Seine  below 
Rouen.  He  is  chanting  a  newly  composed 
piece  of  prose,  marking  time  as  if  he  were  con 
ducting  a  music-drama.  "What  are  you  doing 
there?"  asked  his  friend.  "Scanning  these 
130 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

words,  because  they  don't  sound  well,"  he  re 
plied.  Flaubert  would  spend  a  day  over  a 
sentence  and  practically  tested  it  by  declaim 
ing  —  spouting,  he  called  it  —  for  as  he  wisely 
rema'rked:  "A  well-constructed  phrase  adapts 
itself  to  the  rhythm  of  respiration."  His  de 
light  in  prose  assonance  and  cadence  mani 
fested  itself  in  his  predilection  for  such  a  phrase 
as  Chateaubriand's  in  Atala:  "Elle  repand 
dans  le  bois  ce  grand  secret  de  melancholic 
qu'elle  aime  a  raconter  aux  vieux  chenes  et 
aux  rivages  antiques  des  mers."  There's  a 
" mouther"  for  you!  as  George  Saintsbury 
would  say.  But  in  this  age  of  uninflected  speech 
the  louder  the  click  of  the  type-machine  the 
better  the  style. 

If  modern  prose  were  written  for  the  ear  as 
well  as  the  eye,  chanted  and  scanned,  it  might 
prove  more  sonorous  and  rhythmic  than  it 
does,  and  more  artistic.  Curiously  enough, 
Professor  Saintsbury  in  his  magisterial  work 
writes:  "I  rather  doubt  myself  whether  the 
very  finest  and  most  elaborate  prose  is  not 
better  read  than  heard."  That  is,  it  must  be 
overheard  by  the  inner  ear,  which  statement 
rather  puts  a  damper  on  Flaubert's  contention. 
What  saith  the  worthy  Aristotle?  "All  things 
are  determined  by  number."  Prose  should 
have  rhythm  but  should  not  be  metrical  ("  Rhet 
oric");  which  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  thus 
paraphrased  in  his  Technical  Elements  of  Style 
in  Literature:  "The  rule  of  scansion  in  verse 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

is  to  suggest  no  measure  but  the  one  in  hand; 
in  prose  to  suggest  no  measure  at  all.  Prose 
must  be  rhythmical,  and  it  may  be  as  much 
so  as  you  will;  but  it  must  not  be  metrical. 
It  may  be  anything,  but  it  must  not  be  verse." 
(Probably  if  he  had  read  the  amorphous  stuff 
by  courtesy  named  "vers  libre"  Stevenson 
would  have  written  a  stronger  word  than  "any 
thing.")  Or,  again,  Saintsbury:  "The  Rhythm 
of  Prose,  like  the  Metre  of  Verse,  can,  in  Eng 
lish  as  well  as  the  classical  languages,  be  best 
expressed  by  the  foot  system,  or  system  of 
mathematical  combinations  of  'long'  and  'short' 
syllables."  A  fig  for  your  "ancient  trumpery 
of  skeleton  scanning,"  cries  Professor  William 
Morrison  Patterson  in  his  The  Rhythm  of  Prose: 
"  Amphibrachs,  bacchics,  antibacchics,  antipasts, 
molossi,  dochmiacs,  and  proceleusmatics,  which 
heretofore  have  been  brandished  before  our 
eyes,  as  if  they  were  anything  more  than,  as 
stress-patterns,  merely  half  the  story." 

The  Columbia  University  professor  would 
be  far  more  likely  to  indorse  the  axiom  of  Remy 
de  Gourmont  that  style  is  physiological,  which 
Flaubert  well  knew.  And  now,  having  de 
ployed  my  heaviest  artillery  of  quotation,  let 
me  begin  by  saying  that  Professor  Patterson's 
study  is  a  remarkable  contribution  to  the 
critical  literature  of  a  much-debated  theme, 
Prose  Rhythms,  and  this  without  minifying  the 
admirable  labours  of  Saintsbury,  Shelley,  Oliver 
Elton,  Ker,  or  Professor  Bouton  of  the  New 
132 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

York  University.  One  of  the  reasons  that  in 
terest  the  present  writer  in  the  monograph  is 
its  strong  musical  bias.  Professor  Patterson 
is  evidently  the  possessor  of  a  highly  organised 
musical  ear,  even  if  he  be  not  a  practical  musi 
cian.  He  no  doubt  agrees  with  Disraeli's  dic 
tum  that  the  key  to  literature  is  music;  i.  e., 
number,  cadence,  rhythm.  I  recall  Miss  Dab- 
ney's  study,  The  Musica  Basis  of  Verse,  deal 
ing  as  it  does  with  a  certain  side  of  the 
subject.  But  the  Patterson  procedure  is  dif 
ferent.  It  is  less  " literary"  than  psychological, 
less  psychological  than  physiological.  He  ex 
periments  with  the  Remy  de  Gourmont  idea, 
though  he  probably  never  saw  it  in  print. 
"Rhythm/7  he  writes  in  his  preface,  "is  thus 
regarded  as  first  of  all  an  experience,  estab 
lished,  as  a  rule,  by  motor  performance  of 
however  rudimentary  a  nature."  Here  is  the 
man  of  science  at  work. 

He  speaks  of  the  "lost  art  of  rhythm,"  ad 
duces  syncopation  so  easily  mastered  by  those 
born  "timers,"  the  Indians  and  Negroes,  per 
tinently  remarks  that  "no  two  individuals 
ever  react  exactly  alike.  The  term  'type'  is 
in  many  ways  a  highly  misleading  fiction." 
Prose  Rhythm,  he  continues,  "must  be  classed 
as  subjective  organisation  of  irregular,  virtually 
haphazard  arrangement  of  sounds.  .  .  .  The 
ultimate  basis  of  all  rhythmic  experience,  how 
ever,  is  the  same.  To  be  clear-cut  it  must  rest 
upon  a  series  of  definite  temporal  units." 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

Professor  Patterson  experimented  in  two 
rooms:  "one  the  regular  sound-room  belong 
ing  to  the,  department  of  psychology  at  Colum 
bia;  the  other  an  expressly  constructed,  fairly 
sound-proof  cabinet  built  into  one  end  of  an 
underground  room  belonging  to  the  depart 
ment  of  physics.'7 

It  has  a  slightly  sinister  ring,  all  this,  has  it 
not  ?  Padded  cells  and  aural  finger-prints ! 
—  to  make  an  Irish  bull.  Max  Nordau  called 
John  Ruskin  a  Torquemada  of  ^Esthetics. 
Professor  Patterson  might  be  styled  a  Tonal 
Torturer.  But  the  experimentings  were  pain 
less.  "The  first  object,"  he  informs  us,  "was  to 
find  out,  as  far  as  possible,  how  a  group  of 
twelve  people,  ten  men  and  two  women,  dif 
fered  with  respect  to  the  complex  of  mental 
processes  usually  designated  roughly  as  the 
'sense  of  rhythm.'  After  they  had  been  ranked 
according  to  the  nature  of  their  reactions  and 
achievements  in  various  tests,  one  of  the  group, 
who  had  evinced  a  measure  of  ease  in  rapid 
tapping,  was  chosen  to  make  drum-beat  records 
on  a  phonograph.  A  sentence  from  Walter 
Pater,  a  sentence  from  Henry  James,  a  pas 
sage  of  music  from  Chopin,  a  haphazard  ar 
rangement  of  words  and  a  haphazard  arrange 
ment  of  musical  notes,  were  tapped  upon  a 
small  metal  drum  and  the  beats  recorded  by  the 
phonograph.  The  words  were  tapped  accord 
ing  to  the  syllables  as  felt,  a  tap  for  each  syllable. 
1  Hours/  for  instance,  was  given  two  beats. 
134 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

The  notes  were  tapped  according  to  their 
designated  time- values.  Observer  No.  i,  hav 
ing  had  long  training  as  a  musician,  found  no 
technical  difficulty  in  the  task.  The  remaining 
eleven  observers,  without  being  told  the  source 
of  the  records,  heard  the  five  series  of  drum 
beats  and  passed  judgment  upon  them.  The 
most  significant  judgment  made  was  that  of 
Observer  No.  7,  who  declared  that  all  five 
records  gave  him  the  impression  of  regular 
musical  themes.  A  large  number  of  the  ob 
servers,  especially  on  the  first  hearing,  found 
all  of  the  records,  including  even  the  passage 
from  Chopin,  elusive  and  more  or  less  irregular. 
An  attempt  was  then  made,  by  means  of  ac 
companying  schedules,  to  find  out  how  much 
or  how  little  organisation  each  observer  could 
be  brought  to  feel  in  the  beats  corresponding 
to  the  passage  from  Walter  Pater  and  the  pas 
sage  of  haphazard  musical  notes."  All  the  data 
are  carefully  set  down  in  the  Appendices. 

The  sentence  by  Walter  Pater  was  chosen 
from  his  essay  on  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  in  The 
Renaissance.  "It  is  the  landscape,  not  of 
dreams  or  of  fancy,  but  of  places  far  withdrawn, 
and  hours  selected  from  a  thousand  with  a 
miracle  of  finesse";  subtly  rhythmic,  too  much 
so  for  any  but  trained  ears.  Some  simpler 
excerpt  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne  or  John 
Ruskin  might  have  been  selected,  such  as,  in 
the  former  case,  the  coda  from  the  Urn  Burial, 
or  even  that  chest-expanding  phrase,  "To  sub- 
135 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

sist  in  bones,  and  to  be  pyramidally  extant 
is  a  fallacy  in  duration."  Or,  best  of  all,  be 
cause  of  its  tremendous  intensity,  the  passage 
from  Saint  Paul:  "For  I  am  persuaded,  that 
neither  death,  nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor  prin 
cipalities,  nor  powers,  nor  things  present,  nor 
things  to  come,  nor  height,  nor  depth,  nor  any 
other  creature,  shall  be  able  to  separate  us  from 
the  love  of  God,  which  is  in  Christ  Jesus  our 
Lord."  The  drum-beat  is  felt  throughout,  but 
the  pulsation  is  not  marked  as  in  the  pages  of 
Macaulay;  nor  has  it  the  monotony  found  in 
Lohengrin  on  account  of  the  prevalence  of 
common  or  four-four  time,  and  also  the  coin 
cidence  of  the  metrical  and  rhythmic  beat,  a 
coincidence  that  Chopin  usually  avoids,  and 
all  latter-day  composers  flee  as  dulness-breeding. 
The  base-rhythm  of  English  prose  is,  so  Pro 
fessor  Saintsbury  writes,  "the  paeon,  or  four- 
syllabled  foot,"  and,  he  could  have  added,  pro 
vocative  of  ennui  for  delicate  ears.  Variety  in 
rhythms  is  the  ideal.  Our  author  appositely 
quotes  from  Puffer's  Studies  in  Symmetry:  "A 
picture  composed  in  substitutional  symmetry  is 
more  rich  in  its  suggestions  of  motor  impulse, 
and  thus  more  beautiful,  than  an  example  of 
geometrical  symmetry."  And  this  applies  to 
prose  and  music  as  well  as  to  pictures.  It  is 
the  very  kernel  of  the  art  of  Paul  Cezanne; 
rhythmic  irregularity,  syncopation,  asymmetry. 
De  Quincey's  Our  Lady  of  Darkness  and  a 
sentence  from  Cardinal  Newman's  Grammar 
136 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

of  Assent  were  included  among  the  tests.  Also 
one  from  Henry  James;  in  the  preface  to  The 
Golden  Bowl:  "For  I  have  nowhere  found 
vindicated  the  queer  thesis  that  the  right  values 
of  interesting  prose  depend  all  on  withheld 
tests."  If,  according  to  lovers  of  the  old  rhetoric, 
of  the  resounding  "purple  panels"  of  Bossuet, 
Chateaubriand,  Flaubert,  Raleigh,  Browne,  and 
Ruskin,  the  cooler  prose  of  Mr.  James  cannot 
be  "spouted";  nevertheless,  the  interior 
rhythmic  life  is  finer  and  more  complex.  The 
Chopin  nocturne  played  was  the  familiar  one 
in  G  minor,  Opus  37,  No.  i,  simple  in  rhythmic 
structure  though  less  interesting  than  its  sister 
nocturne  in  G,  Opus  37,  No.  2  (the  first  is  in 
common,  the  second  in  six-eighths  time).  Pro 
fessor  Patterson  knows  Riemann  and  his  "agogic 
accent,"  which,  according  to  that  editor  of 
the  Chopin  Etudes,  is  a  slight  expansion  in 
the  value  of  the  note;  not  a  dynamic  accent. 
In  his  treatment  of  vers  libre  our  author 
is  not  too  sympathetic.  He  thinks  that  "in 
their  productions"  —  free-verse  poets  —  "the 
disquieting  experience  of  attempting  to  dance 
up  the  side  of  a  mountain"  is  suggested.  "For 
those  who  find  this  task  exhilarating  vers  libre, 
as  a  form,  is  without  rival.  With  regard  to 
subtle  cadence,  however,  which  has  been  claimed 
as  the  chief  distinction  of  the  new  poets,  it  is 
still  a  question  as  to  how  far  they  have  sur 
passed  the  refinement  of  balance  that  quickens 
the  prose  of  Walter  Pater."  They  have  not, 


STYLE  IN  ENGLISH  PROSE 

despite  the  verbal  ingenuity,  banished  the  im 
pression  of  dislocation,  of  the  epileptic.  In 
French,  in  the  hands  of  Rimbaud,  Verlaine, 
Verhaeren,  Gustave  Kahn,  Regnier,  Stuart 
Merrill,  Viele  Griffin,  and  Jules  Laforgue,  the 
rhythms  are  supple,  the  assonances  grateful 
to  the  ear,  the  irregular  patterns  not  offensive 
to  the  eye;  in  a  word,  a  form,  or  a  deviation 
from  form,  more  happily  adapted  to  the  genius 
of  the  French  or  Italian  language  than  to  the 
English.  Most  of  our  native  vers  libre  sounds 
like  a  ton  of  coal  falling  through  too  small  an 
aperture  in  the  sidewalk.  However,  "it's  not 
the  gilt  that  makes  a  god,  but  the  worshipper." 
For  musicians  and  writers  the  interesting 
if  abstruse  study  of  Professor  Patterson  will 
prove  valuable.  After  reading  of  the  results 
in  his  laboratory  at  Columbia  we  feel  that  we 
have  been,  all  of  us,  talking  rhythmic  prose 
our  life  long. 


138 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    QUEEREST   YARN    IN    THE 
WORLD 

THE  way  the  story  leaked  out  was  this:  A 
young  Irishman  from  Sligo,  as  he  blushingly 
admitted,  whose  face  was  a  passport  of  honesty 
stamped  by  nature  herself,  had  served  two 
customers  over  the  bar  of  the  old  chop-house 
across  the  street  from  the  opera-house.  To 
him  they  were  just  two  throats  athirst;  nothing 
more.  They  ordered  drinks,  and  this  first  at 
tracted  his  attention,  for  they  agreed  on  cognac. 
Now,  brandy  after  dinner  is  not  an  unusual 
drink,  but  this  pair  had  asked  for  a  large  glass. 
Old  brandy  was  given  them,  and  such  huge 
swallows  followed  that  the  bartender  was  com 
pelled  by  his  conscience  to  ring  up  one  dollar 
for  the  two  drinks.  It  was  paid,  and  another 
round  commanded,  as  if  the  two  men  were 
hurried,  as  indeed  they  were,  for  it  was  during 
an  entr'acte  at  the  opera  that  they  had  slipped 
out  for  liquid  refreshments.  Against  the  bar 
of  the  establishment  a  dozen  or  more  humans 
were  ranged,  and  the  noise  was  deafening,  but 
not  so  great  as  to  prevent  the  Irishman  from 
catching  scraps  of  the  conversation  dropped 
by  the  brandy-drinkers.  Their  talk  went  some 
thing  like  this,  and,  although  Michael  had  little 
139 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

schooling,  his  memory  was  excellent,  and,  being 
a  decent  chap,  there  is  no  need  to  impeach 
the  veracity  of  his  report. 

The  taller  man,  neither  young,  neither  old, 
and,  like  his  friend,  without  a  grey  hair,  burst 
out  laughing  after  the  disappearance  of  the 
second  cognac.  "I  say,  old  pal,  who  was  it 
wrote  that  brandy  was  for  heroes?  Kipling? 
What?"  The  other  man,  stockily  built,  for 
eign-looking,  answered  in  a  contemptuous  tone 
("sneering-like,"  as  my  informant  put  it): 

"Where's  your  memory?  Gone  to  rack  and 
ruin  like  your  ideals,  I  suppose !  Kipling ! 
What  do  such  youngsters  know?  Doctor 
Johnson  or  Walter  Savage  Landor  was  the 
originator  of  the  lying  epigram;  after  them 
Byron  gobbled  it  up,  as  he  gobbled  up  most 
of  the  good  things  of  his  generation,  and  after 
him,  the  deluge  of  this  mediocre  century.  When 
I  told  Byron  this,  at  Milan,  I  think  it  was,  he 
vowed  me  an  ass.  Now,  it  was  Doctor  John 
son." 

1  'Cheer  up,  it's  not  so  bad.  I  remember 
once  at  Paris,  or  was  it  Vienna,  you  said  the 

same  thing  about "  and  here  followed  a 

strange  name. 

"  And,  anyhow,  you  are  mixing  dates;  Landor 
followed  Byron,  please,  but  I  suppose  he  said 
it  first.  I  told  Metternich  of  your  bon-mot, 
and,  egad !  he  laughed,  did  that  old  parchment 
face.  As  for  Bonaparte,  upstart  and  charlatan, 
he  was  too  selfish  to  smile  at  anybody's  wit 
140 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

but  his  own,  and  little  he  had.     Do  you  re 
member  the  Congress  of  Vienna?" 

"Do  I  — 1815?" 

"Some  such  year.  Or  was  it  in  1750  when 
we  saw  Casanova  at  Venice?  Well-  At 
this  point  the  alarm-signal  went  off,  and  the 
mob  went  over  to  the  opera.  The  young  bar 
tender's  heart  was  beating  so  fast  that  it  "  leapt 
up  in  his  bosom,"  as  he  described  it.  Two 
middle-aged  men  talking  of  a  century  ago  as 
calmly  as  if  they  had  spoken  of  yesterday  flus 
tered  him  a  bit.  He  heard  the  dates.  He 
noticed  the  perfectly  natural  manner  in  which 
events  were  mentioned.  There  was  no  mys 
tification.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Michael 
was  sorry  the  between-act  pause  was  so  short, 
and  he  longed  for  the  next  one,  though  fatigued 
from  the  labours  of  the  last.  Would  these 
gentlemen  return  for  more  cognac?  In  an 
hour  they  came  back  with  the  crowd,  again 
drank  old  five-star  brandy,  and  gossiped  about 
a  lot  of  incomprehensible  things  that  had  evi 
dently  taken  place  in  the  sixteenth  or  seven 
teenth  century;  at  least,  Michael  overheard 
them  disputing  dates,  and  one  of  them  bet 
the  other  that  the  big  fire  in  London  occurred 
in  1666,  and  referred  the  question  to  Mr.  Pep 
pers,  or  Peps  —  some  such  name. 

"Ah,  poor  old  Pepys,"  sighed  the  dark  man; 
"if  he  had  only  taken  better  care  of  himself 
he  might  have  been  with  us  to-day  instead  of 
mouldering  in  his  grave." 
141 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

"Oh,  well!  you  can't  expect  every  one  to 
believe  in  your  Struldbrug  cure/'  replied  his 
friend  dreamily.  "Even  Her  Majesty,  Queen 
Anne,  would  not  take  your  advice,  though  Mrs. 
Masham  and  Mr.  Harley  begged  her  to." 

"Yes,  about  the  only  thing  they  ever  agreed 
upon  in  their  life.  Where  is  Harley  to-day?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  in  London,"  carelessly  re 
plied  the  other.  "For  a  young  bird  of  several 
centuries  he's  looking  as  fit  as  a  fiddle;  but 
see  here,  Swift,  old  boy,  your  bogy-tales  are 
worrying  our  young  friend,"  and  with  that 
Michael  says  they  pointed  to  him,  heartily 
laughed,  and  went  away. 

He  crossed  himself,  and  for  a  moment  the 
electric  lights  burned  dim,  so  it  seemed  to  the 
superstitious  laddie-buck.  But  he  had  had  a 
good  chance  to  study  the  odd  pair.  They  were 
not,  as  he  repeated,  old  men,  neither  were  they 
youthful.  Say  thirty-five  or  forty  years,  and 
he  noticed  this  time  the  freshness  of  their  com 
plexions,  the  brilliancy  of  their  eyes.  They 
were  just  gentlemen  in  evening  clothes  and 
had  run  across  Broadway  without  overcoats, 
a  reprehensible  act  even  for  a  young  man. 
But  they  were  healthy,  self-contained,  and 
hard-headed  —  they  took,  according  to  the 
statistician  behind  the  bar,  about  a  quart  of 
brandy  between  them,  and  were  as  fresh  as 
daisies  after  the  fiery  stuff.  Who  were  they? 
"Blagueurs,"  said  I,  after  I  had  carefully  de 
ciphered  the  runic  inscriptions  in  Michael's  mind. 
142 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

(This  was  a  week  later.)  Two  fellows  out  on  a 
lark,  bent  on  scaring  a  poor  Irish  boy.  But 
what  was  Swift,  or  Queen  Anne,  or  Metternich, 
or  Mr.  Harley  to  him  ?  Just  words.  Bonaparte 
he  might  be  expected  to  remember.  It  was 
curious  all  the  same  that  he  could  reel  off  the 
unusual  names  of  Mrs.  Masham  and  Casanova. 
The  deuce!  was  there  something  in  the  horrid 
tale?  Two  immortals  stalking  the  globe  when 
their  very  bones  should  have  been  dissolved 
into  everlasting  dust!  Two  wraiths  revisiting 
the  glimpses  of  the  moon  —  hold  on!  Struld- 
brug!  Who  was  Struldbrug?  What  his  cure? 
I  tried  to  summon  from  the  vasty  deep  all  the 
worthies  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Struld 
brug.  Swift.  Struldbrug.  Sir  William  Temple. 
Struldbrug  —  ah !  by  the  great  horn  spoon ! 
The  Struldbrugs  of  the  Island  of  Laputa !  Gul 
liver's  hideous  immortals  —  and  then  the  horror 
of  the  story  enveloped  me,  but,  despite  my 
aversion  to  meeting  the  dead,  I  determined  to 
live  in  the  chop-house  till  I  saw  face  to  face 
these  ghosts  from  a  vanished  past.  My  curi 
osity  was  soon  gratified,  as  the  sequel  will  show. 
Just  one  week  after  the  appearance  of  this 
pair  I  stood  talking  to  the  Irish  barman,  when 
I  saw  him  start  and  pale.  Ha !  I  thought,  here 
are  my  men.  I  was  not  mistaken.  Two  well- 
built  and  well-groomed  gentlemen  asked  for 
brandy,  and  swallowed  it  in  silence.  They  were 
polite  enough  to  avoid  my  rather  rude  stare. 
jNo  wonder  I  stared.  They  recalled  familiar 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

faces,  yet  I  couldn't  at  once  place  the  owners. 
Presently  they  went  over  to  a  table  and  seated 
themselves.  Loudly  calling  for  a  mug  of  musty 
ale,  I  boldly  put  myself  at  an  adjacent  spot, 
and  continued  my  spying  tactics.  The  friends 
were  soon  in  hot  dispute.  It  concerned  the 
literary  reputation  of  Balzac.  I  sat  with  my 
mouth  wide  open. 

The  elder  of  the  pair,  the  one  called  Swift, 
snapped  at  his  friend:  "Zounds,  sir!  you  and 
your  Balzac.  Hogwash  and  roosters  in  rut  — 
that's  about  his  capacity.  Of  course,  when 
your  own  dull  stuff  appeared  he  praised  you 
for  the  sake  of  the  paradox.  You  moderns ! 
Balzac  the  father  of  French  fiction!  You  the 
father,  or  is  it  grandfather,  of  psychology - 
a  nice  crew!  That  boy  Maupassant  had  more 
stuff  in  him  than  a  wilderness  of  Zolas,  Gon- 
courts,  and  the  rest.  He  is  almost  as  amusing 
as  Paul  de  Kock— "  The  other,  the  little 
man,  bristled  with  rage. 

"  Because  you  wrote  a  popular  boy's  book, 
full  of  filth  and  pessimism,  you  think  you  know 
all  literature.  And  didn't  you  copy  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac's  Voyagers,  and  Defoe?  You  satirise 
every  one  except  God,  whom  you  spare  be 
cause  you  don't  know  him.  I  don't  care  much 
for  Balzac,  though  I'm  free  to  confess  he  did 
treat  me  handsomely  in  praising  my  Char 
treuse  - 

"Good  God !"  I  groaned, " it's  Stendhal,  other 
wise  Henry  Beyle,  laying  down  the  law  to  the 
144 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

tremendous  author  of  Gulliver's  Travels."  And 
yet  neither  man  looked  the  accepted  portrait 
of  himself.  Above  all,  no  Struldbrug  moles 
were  in  view.  I  forgot  my  former  fear,  being 
interested  in  the  dispute  of  these  two  giant 
writers  who  are  more  akin  artistically  than 
ever  taken  cognisance  of  by  criticism.  Dead? 
What  did  I  care !  They  were  surely  alive  now, 
and  I  was  not  dreaming.  I  didn't  need  to 
pinch  myself,  for  my  eyes  and  ears  reported 
the  occurrence.  A  miracle  ?  Why  not.  Miracles 
are  daily,  if  we  but  knew  it.  Living  is  the 
most  wonderful  of  all  miracles.  The  discus 
sion  proceeded.  Swift  spoke  tersely,  just  as  he 
wrote: 

"  Enough,  friend  Beyle.  You  are  a  char 
latan.  Your  knowledge  of  the  human  heart 
is  on  a  par  with  your  taste  in  literature.  You 
abominate  Flaubert  because  his  prose  is  more 
rhythmic  than  yours." 

"I  vow  I  protest,"  interrupted  Stendhal. 

"No  matter.  I'm  right.  Merimee,  your 
pupil,  is  your  master  at  every  point." 

I  could  no  longer  contain  myself,  and,  burst 
ing  with  curiosity,  I  cried: 

"Pardon  me,  dear  masters,  for  interrupting 
such  a  luminous  altercation,  but,  notwith 
standing  the  queerness  of  the  situation,  may  I 
not  say  that  I  meet  in  the  flesh,  Jonathan  Swift 
and  Henry  Beyle-Stendhal?" 

"Discovered,  by  the  eternal  Jehovah!" 
roared  Swift,  adding  an  obscene  phrase,  which 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

I  discreetly  omit.  Stendhal  took  the  incident 
coolly. 

"As  I  am  rediscovered  about  every  decade 
by  ambitious  young  critics  anxious  to  achieve 
reputations,  I  am  not  disturbed  by  our  young 
friend  here.  Your  apology,  monsieur,  is  ac 
cepted.  Pray,  join  us  in  a  fresh  drink  and  con 
versation."  But  I  was  only  thirsty  for  more 
talk,  oceans  of  talk.  I  eagerly  asked  Sten 
dhal,  who  regarded  me  with  cynical  eyes,  all 
the  while  fingering  his  little  whisker:  "Did 
you  ever  hear  Chopin  play?" 

"Who,"  he  solemnly  asked  in  turn,  "is 
Chopin?" 

"He  was  at  his  best  in  the  forties,  and  as 
you  didn't  die  till " 

"Pardon  me,  monsieur.  I  never  died.  Your 
Chopin  may  have  died,  but  I  am  immortal." 

"You  venerable  Struldbrug,"  giggled  Swift. 
I  was  disagreeably  impressed,  yet  held  my 
ground : 

"You  must  have  met  him.  He  was  a  friend 
of  Balzac  —  his  music  was  then  in  vogue  at 
Paris  —  I  stumbled  in  my  speech. 

"He  probably  means  that  little  Polish  piano- 
player  who  dangled  at  the  petticoats  of  George 
Sand,"  interpolated  Swift. 

"I  knew  Cimarosa,  Rossini  I  saw,  but  I 
never  heard  of  Chopin.  As  for  the  Sand  woman, 
that  cow  who  chewed  and  rechewed  her  lit 
erary  cud  —  don't  mention  her  name  to  me, 
please.  She  is  the  village  pump  of  fiction; 
146 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

water,  wet  water.  Balzac  was  bad  enough." 
My  heart  sank.  Chopin  not  even  remembered 
by  a  contemporary !  This  then  is  fame.  But 
the  immortality  of  Stendhal,  of  Swift  —  what 
of  that?  Its  reality  was  patent  to  me.  Per 
haps  Balzac,  Sand,  Flaubert  were  still  alive. 
I  propounded  the  question.  Swift  answered 
it. 

"Yes,  they  are  alive.  My  Struldbrugs  are 
meant  to  symbolise  the  immortality  of  genius. 
Only  stupid  people  die.  Sand  is  a  barmaid 
in  London.  Balzac  is  on  the  road  selling  knit- 
goods,  and  a  mighty  good  drummer  he  is  sure 
to  be;  but  poor  Flaubert  has  had  hard  luck. 
He  was  the  reader  to  a  publishing  house,  and 
forced  to  pass  judgment  on  the  novels  of  the 
day  —  favourable  judgment,  mind  you,  on  the 
popular  stuff.  He  nearly  burst  a  blood-vessel 
when  they  gave  him  a  Marie  Corelli  manu 
script  to  correct  —  to  correct  the  style,  mind 
you,  he,  Flaubert!  The  gods  are  certainly 
capricious.  Now  the  old  chap  —  he  has  aged 
since  1880  —  is  in  New  York  reading  proof  at 
a  daily  newspaper  office.  He  sits  at  the  same 
desk  with  Ben  de  Casseres,  and  every  time  he 
mutters  over  the  rhythm  of  a  sentence  Ben 
raps  him  on  the  knuckles,  and  says: 

"'You   are  an  old-fashioned  bourgeois,  Pop 

Flaubert!     Some  night  I'll  take  you  over  to 

Jack's  and  recite  my  Sermon  on  Suicide,   to 

teach    you    what    brilliance    and    Bovarysme 

147 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

really  mean.'"  I  was  shocked  at  this  blasphe 
my,  and  said  so.  Stendhal  calmly  bade  me  to 
keep  my  temper. 

"But  isn't  Mr.  Swift  joking?" 

"Mr.  Swift  is  always  joking,"  was  the  far 
from  reassuring  reply.  To  fill  in  the  interval 
I  called  for  the  waiter.  The  ghosts  again  de 
manded  cognac.  Stendhal  looked  like  the 
caricature  by  Felicien  Rops,  in  which  his  little 
pot-bellied  figure,  broad  face,  snub  nose,  and 
protuberant  eyes  are  shown  dominating  some 
strange  Cosmopolis  of  1932.  In  life  —  or 
death  —  he  seemed  supremely  self-satisfied.  He 
glowered  at  the  name  of  Flaubert,  rejoicing  in 
the  sad  existence  of  the  mighty  prose  master, 
but  he  smiled  superciliously  when  I  reproached 
him  with  not  knowing  Chopin.  Heine's  poetic 
fantasy  of  the  gods  of  Greece,  alive,  and  still 
in  hiding,  was  not  precisely  convincing  in  the 
present  reincarnation.  A  feeling  of  repulsion 
ensued,  and  finally  I  arose  and  said  good  night 
to  my  very  new  and  very  old  friends.  Swift's 
picture  of  the  Struldbrugs  was  realised,  and  it 
was  an  unpleasant  one.  Men  of  genius  should 
never  be  seen;  in  their  works  alone  they  live. 
Swift,  with  his  nasty,  sly,  constipated  humour; 
Stendhal,  with  his  overwhelming  air  of  arro 
gance  and  superiority,  did  not  win  my  sympa 
thy.  They  evidently  noted  my  dismay. 

"You're  disappointed.  So  sorry!"  said  Swift 
ironically.  "At  first  I  was  vastly  intrigued  at 
the  opportunity  of  talking  with  one  of  you 
148 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

modern  persons,  but  I  see  I'm  -mistaken  — 
ha!  Beyle,  what  d'ye  say?" 

Stendhal  pondered.  "Cimarosa,  Rossini,  and 
Haydn  I  knew.  Correggio  I  admire,  but  who 
was  Chopin?" 

Stung  to  anger,  I  retorted:  "Yours  is  the 
loss,  not  Chopin's."  Whereat  Michael,  the 
bartender,  merrily  laughed,  and  the  company 
joined  him.  I  was  the  sacrificial  goat.  My 
head  was  on  the  chopping-block,  and  Stendhal 
was  the  executioner.  Forgetting  the  respect 
due  to  such  illustrious  shades,  I  shook  my  finger 
under  Stendhal's  upturned  nostrils:  "You 
may  be  a  couple  of  impostors  for  all  I  know, 
but  even  if  you  are  not,  I  wish  to  tell  you  how 
heartily  I  dislike  your  petty  carping  criticisms. 
Better  oblivion  than  immortality  for  your 
lean  and  sinister  souls."  Again  hysterical 
laughter.  As  I  left  I  overheard  Swift  say  in  re 
proachful  accents,  as  if  his  vanity  had  been 
wounded : 

"This  saucy  Yahoo  reads  our  books  and 
believes  in  them,  but  when  we  talk  he  doubts 
us.  As  Sam  Johnson  used  to  say,  'The  re 
ciprocal  civility  of  authors  is  one  of  the  most 
risible  scenes  in  the  farce  of  life.' ' 

Stendhal  boomed  out:  "He  is  dead  himself 
but  doesn't  know  it  yet.  All  critics  are  still 
born.  But  we  live  on  for  ever.  Gargon !  some 
more  brandy." 

Out  on  crowded,  expressive  Broadway  I 
stood,  dazed  and  irritated.  After  all  the  pa- 
149 


QUEEREST  YARN  IN  THE  WORLD 

laver  of  authors,  it  is  the  critic  who  has  the 
last  word,  like  a  woman.  Rejoicing  over  the 
originality  of  the  idea,  I  went  my  wooden 
way. 


150 


CHAPTER  XIII 
ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

IT  seems  the  "dark  backward  and  abysm 
of  time"  when  writing  the  name  of  William 
Hurrell  Mallock,  yet  not  forty  years  ago  he 
was  the  most  discussed  author  of  his  day.  The 
old  conundrum,  Is  Life  Worth  Living?  he 
revived,  and  newly  orchestrated  with  partic 
ular  reference  to  the  spiritual  needs  of  the 
hour.  And  A  Romance  of  the  Nineteenth  Cen 
tury  was  denounced  as  immoral  as  Mademoiselle 
de  Maupin.  Gautier  was  read  then  and  Swin 
burne's  lilting  paganism  quite  filled  the  lyric 
sky.  Mr.  Mallock's  role  was  that  of  a  phil 
osophical  novelist  and  essayist  who  reproved 
the  golden  materialism  of  his  age,  not  with 
fuliginous  menace,  as  did  Carlyle,  nor  with 
melodious  indignation,  like  Ruskin,  but  with  a 
more  subtle  instrument  of  castigation,  irony. 
He  laughed  at  the  gods  of  the  new  scientific 
dispensation,  Darwin,  Spencer,  Huxley,  Tyn- 
dall,  Clifford,  and  he  put  them  in  the  pages  of 
his  New  Republic  for  the  delectation  of  the 
world,  and  most  appealing  foolery  it  was;  this 
and  the  sheer  burlesque  of  The  New  Paul  and 
Virginia.  Mr.  Mallock  was  an  individualist. 
The  influence  of  John  Stuart  Mill  had  not  yet 
waned  in  the  seventies  —  he  occupied  then  a 


ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

place  midway  between  Bentham  and  Spencer. 
His  birth,  breeding,  and  temperament  made 
Mallock  a  foe  to  socialism,  to  the  promiscuous 
in  politics,  religion,  society,  therefore  an  apostle 
of  culture,  not  missing  its  precious  side;  wit 
ness  Mr.  Rose  in  The  New  Republic,  and  one 
who  abhorred  the  crass  and  the  irreverent  in 
the  New  Learning.  He  enjoyed  vogue.  His 
ideas  were  boldly  seized  and  transformed  by 
the  men  of  the  nineties,  yet  to-day  it  is  difficult 
to  get  a  book  of  his.  They  are  mostly  out  of 
print  —  which  is  equivalent  to  saying,  out  of 
mind. 

With  what  personal  charm  he  invested  his 
romances!  He  is  the  literary  progenitor  of  a 
long  line  of  young  men,  artistic  in  taste,  a  trifle 
sceptical  as  to  final  causes,  wealthy,  worldly, 
widely  cultured,  and  aristocratic.  The  staler 
art  of  Oscar  Wilde  gives  the  individual  of  Mal 
lock  petrified  into  a  rather  unpleasant  type. 
Walter  Pater's  fear  that  the  word  "hedonist" 
would  be  suspected  as  immoral  came  true  in 
Wilde's  books.  The  heroes  of  A  Romance  of 
the  Nineteenth  Century,  Tristram  Lacy  and 
The  New  Republic  have  a  strong  family  re 
semblance.  They  were  supermen  before  Nietz 
sche  was  discovered.  They  are  prepossessed  by 
theological  problems,  they  love  the  seven  arts, 
and  are  a  trifle  decadent;  though  when  action  is 
demanded  they  do  not  fail  to  respond.  As 
stories  go,  A  Romance  is  the  best  of  Mallock's; 
the  canvas  of  Tristram  Lacy  is  larger,  the  in- 
152 


ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

trigue  less  intense,  and  the  characterisation  more 
human.  The  unhappy  girl,  Cynthia  Walters, 
who  so  shocked  our  mothers,  is  not  duplicated 
in  Tristram.  Mr.  Mallock  wrote  a  preface  to 
the  second  edition  of  A  Romance,  a  superfluous 
one,  for  the  book  needs  no  apology.  It  never 
did.  It  is  as  moral  as  Madame  B ovary,  though 
not  as  pleasant.  The  Triangle  is  a  revered 
convention  in  French  fiction,  but  the  nat 
uralistic  photographs  in  A  Romance  are  not 
agreeable,  and  Cynthia's  epitaph,  "  Blessed  are 
the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God," 
leaves  a  bitter  taste  in  the  mouth.  It  is  in  the 
mode  ironical  almost  projected  to  the  key  of 
cynicism.  No  doubt  the  leisurely  gait  of  these 
fictions  would  be  old-fashioned  to  the  present 
generation,  with  its  preference  for  staccato 
English,  morbid  sensationalism,  and  lack  of 
grace  and  scholarship.  Mr.  Mallock  is  a  scholar 
and  a  gentleman  who  writes  a  prose  of  distinc 
tion,  and  he  is  also  a  thinker,  reactionary,  to 
be  sure,  but  a  tilter  at  sham  philosophies  and 
sham  religions.  Last,  but  not  least,  he  has 
abundant  humour  and  a  most  engaging  wit. 
Possibly  all  these  qualities  would  make  him 
unpopular  in  our  present  century. 

What  a  gathering  of  choice  spirits  in  The 
New  Republic:  Matthew  Arnold,  Professor 
Jowett  —  a  fine  character  etching  —  Huxley, 
Tyndall,  Carlyle,  Pater  —  rather  cruelly  treated 
—  Ruskin,  Doctor  Pusey,  Mrs.  Mark  Patti- 
son,  W.  K.  Clifford,  Violet  Fane  — how  the 
153 


ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

author  juggles  with  their  personalities,  with 
their  ideas.  It's  the  cleverest  parody  of  its 
kind.  Otho  Laurence  and  Robert  Leslie  are 
closely  related  in  aspirations  to  Ralph  Vernon, 
Alie  Campbell,  and  the  priest  Stanley  of  A 
Romance.  As  portraits,  those  of  the  Premier 
Lord  Runcorn  in  Tristram  Lacy,  and  the  faded 
dandy,  poet,  and  man  about  town,  Lord  Sur- 
biton,  of  A  Romance,  are  difficult  to  match 
outside  of  Disraeli.  Epigrams  drop  like  snow- 
flakes.  The  decor  is  always  gorgeous  —  Monte 
Carlo,  Provence,  Cap  de  Juan,  countries  flow 
ing  with  milk  and  honey,  marble  ruins,  the 
ilex,  cypress,  and  palm.  Palaces  there  are, 
and  inhabited  by  languid,  fascinating  young 
men  who  anxiously  examine  in  the  glass  their 
expressive  countenances,  asking  the  •  Lord 
whether  He  is  pleased  with  them.  And  lovely 
girls,  charming,  and  in  Cynthia  Walters's  case 
a  lily  with  a  cankered  calyx.  Then  there  are 
the  Price-Bousefields  and  the  inimitable  Mrs. 
Norham,  "celebrated  authoress  and  upholder 
of  the  people."  One  of  the  notable  blackguards 
in  fiction  is  Colonel  Stapleton;  and  the  Poodle 
and  the  new-rich  Helbecksteins  —  a  complete 
picture-gallery  may  be  found  in  these  interest 
ing  novels.  Romance  rules;  poetry,  tenderness 
in  the  appreciation  of  the  eternal  feminine,  and 
a  pity  for  living  things.  Poor  Cynthia  Walters, 
the  "dear,  dead  woman,"  lingers  in  the  memory, 
as  modern  as  yesterday,  and  as  effaced  as  a 
daguerreotype. 


ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

But  if  his  heroes  sow  their  oats  tamely  Mr. 
Mallock  as  an  antagonist  is  most  vigorous. 
He  went  at  the  scientific  men  with  all  the  weap 
ons  in  his  armoury.  To-day  there  no  longer 
exists  the  need  of  such  polemics.  In  the  moral 
world  there  are  analogies  to  the  physical,  and 
particularly  in  geology,  with  its  prehistoric 
stratifications,  its  vast  herbarium,  its  quarries 
and  petrifications,  its  ossuaries,  the  bones  of 
vanished  forms,  ranging  from  the  shadow  of 
a  leaf  to  the  flying  crocodile,  the  horrid  ptero 
dactyl —  now  reduced  to  the  exquisite  and 
iridescent  dragon-fly;  from  the  monstrous  mam 
moth  to  the  tiny  forerunner  of  the  horse. 
Philosophy  and  Religion,  too,  have  their  mighty 
dead,  their  immemorial  tombs  wherein  repose 
the  bones  of  the  buried  dead  skeletons  of  ob 
solete  systems.  And  on  the  sands  of  time  lie 
the  arch-images  of  antique  thought  awaiting 
the  condign  catastrophe.  There  are  Kant  and 
his  followers,  and  near  the  idealists  are  the 
materialists;  next  to  Hegel  is  Biichner,  and  at 
the  base  of  the  vast  structure  so  patiently 
reared  by  Herbert  Spencer  the  mists  are  al 
ready  dense,  though  not  as  obscuring  as  the 
clouds  about  the  mausoleum  of  Comte.  That 
great  charmless  woman,  George  Eliot,  smiles 
a  smile  of  sombre  ennui  before  the  Spencer 
tomb,  and  the  invisible  voice  of  Ernest  Haeckel 
is  heard  whispering:  Where  is  your  Positivism? 
Where  is  your  Rationalism  ?  What  has  become 
of  your  gaseous  invertebrate  god?  Surely 
155 


ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

there  is  sadly  required  in  the  cynical  universi 
ties  of  the  world  a  Chair  of  Irony  with  subtle 
Edgar  Saltus  as  its  first  incumbent. 

Now,  Mr.  Mallock  knows  that  religion  and 
philosophy  may  travel  on  parallel  lines,  therefore 
never  collide.  He  took  the  catch- word  "the 
bankruptcy  of  science"  too  seriously.  Not 
withstanding  the  persuasive  rhetoric  of  that 
silken  sophist  Henri  Bergson,  a  belated  visionary 
metaphysician  in  a  world  of  realities,  the  trend 
of  latter-day  thought  is  toward  the  veritable 
victories  of  science.  A  new  world  has  come  into 
being.  And  what  discoveries:  spectral  analysis, 
the  modes  of  force,  matter  displaced  by  energy, 
the  relations  of  atoms  in  molecules  —  a  re 
newed  geology,  astronomy,  palaeontology,  biol 
ogy,  embryology,  wireless  telegraphy,  the  con 
quest  of  the  air,  and,  last  but  not  least,  the 
discovery  of  radium.  The  slightly  war-worn 
evolution  theory  is  now  confronted  by  the 
Transformism  of  Hugo  de  Vries,  who  has 
shown  in  a  most  original  manner  that  nature 
also  proceeds  by  sudden  leaps  as  well  as  in 
slow,  orderly  progress.  And  the  brain,  that 
telephonic  centre,  according  to  Bergson,  is 
become  another  organ.  Ramon  y  Gujol,  the 
Spanish  biologist,  with  his  neurons  —  little 
erectile  bodies  in  the  cells  of  the  cortex,  stirred 
to  motor  impulses  when  a  message  is  sent  them 
from  the  sensory  nerves  —  has  done  more  for 
positive  knowledge  than  a  wilderness  of  meta 
physicians. 

156 


ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

That  famous  interrogation,  "Is  life  worth 
living?"  may  be  viewed  to-day  from  a  different 
angle.  Mr.  Mallock  acknowledged  that  the 
question  must  be  answered  in  the  terms  of  the 
individual  only.  Here  we  encounter  a  new 
crux.  What  is  the  individual?  The  family 
is  the  unit  of  society,  not  the  individual.  And 
the  autonomous  "I"  exists  no  longer,  except 
as  a  unit  in  the  colony  of  cells  which  are  "We." 
Man  is  a  being  afloat  in  an  ocean  of  vibrations. 
Society  demands  the  co-operation  of  its  com 
ponent  cells,  else  relegates  to  solitude  the  in 
dividual  who  cannot  adapt  himself  to  play  a 
humble  part  in  the  cosmical  orchestra.  That 
protean  theory  Socialism  has  changed  its  cha 
meleonic  hues  many  times  since  Mr.  Mallock 
wrote  Is  Life  Worth  Living?  His  idea  is 
worked  out  with  great  clearness  in  the  appre 
hension  of  details,  but  with  little  feeling  for 
their  relations  to  each  other.  Sadly  considered, 
we  may  take  it  for  granted  that  life  has  a  def 
inite  aim.  We  live,  as  a  modern  thinker  puts 
it,  because  we  stand  like  the  rest  of  cognisable 
nature  under  the  universal  law  of  causality; 
this  idea  is  founded  not  on  a  metaphysical  but 
a  biological  basis.  Metaphysics  is  a  pleasing 
diversion,  though  it  doesn't  get  us  to  finalities. 
Happiness  is  an  absolute.  Therefore  it  has  no 
existence.  There  never  was,  there  never  will 
be  an  earthly  paradise,  no  matter  what  the 
socialists  say.  Content  is  the  summum  bonum 
of  mankind;  the  content  that  comes  with 
157 


ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

sound  health  and  a  clear  conscience.  The 
wrangling  over  Free  Will  is  now  considered  a 
sign  of  ghost-worship. 

Schopenhauer  and  his  mystic  Will-to-Live 
are  both  rather  amusing  survivals  of  antique 
animism.  The  problem  is  not  whether  we  can 
do  what  we  want  to  do,  but  whether  we  can 
will  what  we  want  to  will.  But  the  illusion 
of  individual  freedom  of  will  is  the  last  illusion 
to  be  dissipated  in  this  most  deterministic 
of  worlds  and  most  pluralistic  of  universes. 
It's  a  poor  conception  of  eternity  that  doesn't 
work  both  ways.  As  there  will  be  no  end 
to  things,  there  never  was  a  beginning. 
Eternity  is  now.  Professor  Hugh  S.  R.  Elliott 
wrote  in  his  brilliant  refutation  of  Bergson  that 
"the  feeling  we  have  of  a  necessity  for  such  an 
explanation  [the  attempt  to  explain  the  uni 
verse]  arises  from  the  conformation  of  our 
brains,  which  think  by  associating  disjoined 
ideas;  ...  no  last  explanation  is  possible  or 
perhaps  even  exists/'  which  will  please  the 
relativists  and  pain  the  absolutists.  But  de 
prive  mankind  of  its  dreams  and  it  is  like  the 
naughty  child  in  Hans  Christian  Andersen's 
fable.  A  fairy  punished  this  child  by  giving 
him  dreamless  slumber.  Without  vision,  old 
as  well  as  young  limp  through  life. 

Pessimism  as  a  philosophy,  it  has  been 
pointed  out,  is  the  last  superstition  of  primor 
dial  times.  It  is  a  form  of  egomania.  From 
Byron  to  D'Annunzio  pessimism  filled  poetry; 
158 


ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

from  Werther  to  Sanine  it  has  ruled  fiction.  It 
is  less  a  philosophy  than  a  matter  of  tempera 
ment.  It  was  the  mode  during  the  last  century, 
and  as  an  issue  is  as  dead  as  the  humanitarianism 
that  followed.  Is  life  worth  living?  was  prop 
erly,  if  somewhat  cynically,  answered:  It  de 
pends  on  the  liver.  Pessimism  is  the  pathetic 
fallacy  reduced  to  medicinal  formula.  It  is 
now  merely  in  our  stock  of  mental  attitudes, 
usually  a  pose;  when  it  is  not,  it's  bound  to 
be  pathological.  Yet  Bossuet  has  spoken  of 
"the  inexorable  ennui  which  forms  the  basis 
of  life."  Mr.  Mallock  was  once  accused  of 
dilettanteism,  aesthetic  and  ethical;  neverthe 
less,  there  is  no  mistaking  his  moral  earnest 
ness  at  the  close  of  Is  Life  Worth  Living?  Fur 
thermore,  he  foresaw  the  muddle  the  world  is 
making  to-day  in  the  conduct  of  life.  All  the 
self-complacent  chatter  about  self-annihilation 
during  the  Buddhist  upheaval  some  decades 
ago  has  been  translated  into  a  veritable  anni 
hilation.  The  holy  name  of  Altruism  —  so 
cial  emotion  made  functional  —  has  vanished 
into  the  intense  inane.  The  higher  forms  of 
discontent  have  modulated  into  the  debasing 
superstition  of  universal  slaughter.  With  Berg- 
son  the  divinity  of  diving  into  the  subconscious 
—  what  else  is  his  intuition?  —  is  set  before 
the  lovers  of  the  mystic  to  worship.  Years 
ago  the  Sufi  doctrine  declared  that  the  judging 
faculty  should  be  abandoned  for  the  intuitive. 
Don't  reason !  Just  dream !  The  poet  Rogers 
159 


ON  REREADING  MALLOCK 

replied  to  a  lady  who  asked  his  religion  that 
his  was  the  religion  of  all  sensible  men.  "And 
what  is  that  ?  "  she  persisted.  * '  That  no  sensible 
men  ever  tell."  But  Mr.  Mallock  has  told, 
and  four  decades  after  his  confession  he  is  still 
worth  rereading. 


160 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  LOST  MASTER 

"WHAT'S  become  of  Waring  since  he  gave 
us  all  the  slip?"  was  quoted  by  a  man  at  the 
Painters'  Club  the  other  night.  What  made 
him  think  of  Browning,  he  blandly  explained 
to  the  two  or  three  chaps  sitting  at  his  table 
on  the  terrace,  was  not  the  terrific  heat,  but 
the  line  swam  across  his  memory  when  he  re 
called  the  name  of  Albertus  Magnus  as  a  green 
meteor  seen  for  a  moment  far  out  at  sea  drops 
into  the  watery  void.  "Who,  in  the  name  of 
Apollo,  is  Albertus  Magnus?"  was  asked.  The 
painter  sat  up.  "There  you  are,  you  fellows!" 
he  roared.  "You  all  paint  or  write  or  spoil 
marble,  but  for  the  history  of  your  art  you 
don't  care  a  rap."  "Yes,  but  what  has  your 
Albertus  Thingamajig  to  do  with  Browning's 
Waring?"  "Only  this,"  was  the  grumbling 
reply;  "it  is  a  similar  case."  "A  story,  a 
story!"  we  all  cried,  and  settled  down  for  a 
yarn;  but  no  yarn  was  spun.  The  painter  re 
lapsed  into  silence,  and  the  group  gradually  dis 
solved.  We  sat  still,  hoping  against  hope. 

"See  here,"  we  expostulated,  "really  you 
should  not  arouse  expectations,  and  then  evade 
the  logical  conclusions.  It's  not  fair."  "I 
161 


THE  LOST  MASTER 

didn't  care  to  explain  to  those  other  fellows," 
was  the  reply.  "They  are  too  cynical  for  my 
taste.  They  go  to  the  holy  of  holies  of  art  to 
pray,  and  come  away  to  scoff.  Materialism, 
rather  realism,  as  you  call  it,  is  the  canker  of 
modern  art.  Suppose  I  told  you  that  here, 
now,  in  this  noisy  Tophet  of  New  York,  there 
lives  a  man  of  genius,  who  paints  like  a  belated 
painter  of  the  Renaissance?  Suppose  I  said 
that  I  could  show  you  his  work,  would  you 
think  I  was  crazy?"  He  paused.  "A  young 
genius,  poor,  unknown?  Oh,  lead  us  to  him, 
Sir  Painter,  and  we  shall  call  you  blest !"  "He 
is  not  young,  and,  while  the  great  public  and 
the  little  dealers  have  not  heard  of  him,  he  has 
a  band  of  admirers,  rich  men  leagued  in  a  con 
spiracy  of  silence,  who  buy  his  pictures,  though 
they  don't  show  them  to  the  critics."  We 
reiterated  our  request:  "Lead  us  to  him!" 
Without  noticing  our  importunities,  he  con 
tinued:  "He  paints  for  the  sake  of  beautiful 
paint;  he  paints  as  did  Hokusai,  the  Old- 
Man-Mad-for-Painting,  or  like  Frenhofer,  the 
hero  in  Balzac's  story,  The  Unknown  Master 
piece!  He  is  more  like  Balzac's  Frenhofer  — 
is  that  the  chap's  name?  —  than  Browning's 
Waring.  He  is  the  lost  master,  a  Frenhofer 
who  has  conquered,  for  he  has  a  hundred  mas 
terpieces  stored  away  in  his  studio."  "Lost 
master?"  we  stuttered;  "a  hundred  master 
pieces  that  have  never  been  shown  to  critic  or 
public?  Oh!  'Never  star  was  lost  here  but  it 
162 


THE  LOST  MASTER 

rose  afar.' '  "Yes,  and  he  quotes  Browning 
by  the  yard,  for  he  was  a  close  friend  of  the 
poet,  and  of  his  best  critic,  Nettleship,  the 
animal  painter,  now  dead."  "Won't  you  tell 
his  story  connectedly,  and  put  us  out  of  our 
agony?"  we  pleaded.  "No,"  he  answered; 
"I'll  do  better.  I'll  take  you  to  his  studio." 
The  evening  ended  in  a  blaze  of  fireworks. 

The  afternoon  following  we  found  ourselves 
in  Greenwich  Village,  in  front  of  a  row  of  old- 
fashioned  cottages  covered  with  honeysuckle. 
You  may  recall  the  avenue  and  this  particular 
block  that  has  thus  far  resisted  the  tempta 
tion  to  become  either  lofty  apartment  or  busi 
ness  palace.  But  the  painter  met  us  here,  and 
conducted  us  westward  until  we  reached  a 
warehouse  —  gloomy,  in  need  of  repair,  yet 
solid,  despite  the  teeth  of  time.  We  entered 
the  wagonway,  traversed  a  dirty  court,  mounted 
a  dark  staircase,  and  paused  before  a  low  door. 
"Do  you  knock,"  we  were  admonished,  and 
at  once  did  so.  Approaching  footsteps.  A 
rattling  and  grating  of  rusty  bolts  and  keys. 
The  door  was  slowly  opened.  A  big  hairy 
head  appeared.  The  eyes  set  in  this  halo  of 
white  hair  were  positively  the  most  magnificent 
I  had  ever  seen  sparkle  and  glow  in  a  human 
countenance.  If  a  lion  were  capable  of  being 
at  once  poet  and  prophet  and  exalted  animal, 
his  eyes  would  have  possessed  something  of  the 
glance  of  this  stranger.  We  turned  anxiously  to 
to  our  friend.  He  had  disappeared.  What  a 


THE  LOST  MASTER 

trick  to  play  at  such  a  moment.  "Who  do  you 
wish?"  rumbled  a  mellow  voice.  "Albertus 
Magnus?"  we  timidly  inquired,  expecting  to 
be  pitched  down  the  stairs  the  next  minute. 
" Ah!"  was  the  reply.  Silence.  Then,  " Come 
in,  please;  don't  stumble  over  the  canvases." 
We  followed  the  old  man,  whose  stature  was 
not  as  heroic  as  his  head;  and  we  did  not  fail 
to  stumble,  for  the  way  was  obscure,  and  paved 
with  empty  frames,  canvases,  and  a  litter  of 
bottles,  paint- tubes,  easels,  rugs,  carpets, 
wretched  furniture,  and  all  the  other  flotsam 
and  jetsam  of  an  old-style  studio.  We  were 
not  sorry  when  we  came  into  open  space  and 
light.  We  were  in  the  room  that  doubtless 
concealed  the  lost  masterpieces,  and  there, 
blithely  smoking  a  cigarette,  sat  our  guide,  the 
painter.  He  had  entered  by  another  door,  he 
explained;  and,  without  noticing  our  discon 
tented  air,  he  introduced  us  to  the  man  of  the 
house.  In  sheer  daylight  he  looked  younger, 
though  his  years  must  have  bordered  upon  the 
biblical  threescore  and  ten.  But  the  soul,  the 
brain  that  came  out  of  his  wonderful  eyes,  were 
as  young  as  to-morrow. 

" Isn't  he  a  corker?"  irreverently  demanded 
our  friend.  "He  is  not  even  as  old  as  he  looks. 
He  doesn't  eat  vegetables,  when  thirsty  he 
drinks  anything  he  can  get,  and  smokes  day 
and  night.  And  yet  he  calls  himself  an  idealist." 
The  old  painter  smiled.  "I  suppose  I  have 
been  described  as  Waring  to  you,  because  I 
164 


THE  LOST  MASTER 

knew  Robert  Browning.  I  did  vanish  from  the 
sight  of  my  friends  for  years,  but  only  in  the 
attempt  to  conquer  paint,  not  to  achieve  money 
or  kingship,  like  the  original  Alfred  Domett, 
called  Waring  in  the  poem.  But  when  I  re 
turned  from  Italy  I  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land.  No  one  remembered  me.  I  had  last 
seen  Elihu  Vedder  at  Capri.  Worst  of  all,  I 
had  forgotten  that  with  time  fashions  change 
in  art  as  in  dress,  and  nowadays  no  one  under 
stands  me,  and,  with  the  exception  of  Arthur 
Davies,  I  understand  no  one.  I  come  from  the 
Venetians,  Davies  from  the  early  Florentines; 
his  line  is  as  beautiful  as  Pollajuolo.  I  love 
gold  more  than  did  Facino  Cano  of  Balzac. 
Gold,  ah !  luscious  gold,  the  lost  secret  of  the 
masters.  Tell  me,  do  you  love  Titian?"  We 
swore  allegiance  to  the  memory  of  Titian.  The 
artist  seemed  pleased.  "You  younger  men  are 
devoted  to  Velasquez  and  Hals  —  too  much  so. 
Great  as  painters,  possibly  greatest  among 
painters,  their  souls  never  broke  away  from  the 
soil  like  runaway  balloons.  They  miss  height 
and  depth.  Their  colour  never  sings  like 
Titian's.  They  surprise  secrets  in  the  eyes  of 
their  sitters,  but  never  the  secret  surprised  by 
the  Italian.  I  sat  at  his  feet,  before  his  can 
vases,  fifty  years,  and  I'm  further  away  than 
ever  — '  Our  friend  interrupted  this  rhapsody. 
"Look  here,  Albertus,  you  man  with  a  name 
out  of  Thomas  Aquinas,  don't  you  think  you 
are  playing  on  your  visitors'  nerves,  just  to 
165 


THE  LOST  MASTER 

set  them  on  edge  with  expectancy?  I've  heard 
this  choral  service  for  the  glorification  of  Titian 
more  than  once,  and  I've  inevitably  noticed 
that  you  had  a  trump  of  your  own  up  your 
sleeve.  You  love  Titian.  Well,  admit  it.  You 
don't  paint  like  him,  your  colour  scheme  is 
something  else,  and  what  you  are  after  you 
only  know  yourself.  Come!  trot  out  your 
Phantom  Ship  or  The  Cascade  of  Gold,  or, 
better  still,  that  landscape  with  a  river-bank 
and  shepherds."  The  old  man  gravely  bowed. 
Then  he  manipulated  the  light,  placed  a  big 
easel  in  proper  position,  fumbled  among  the 
canvases  that  made  the  room  smaller,  secured 
one  and  placed  it  before  us.  We  drew  a  long 
breath.  "  Richard  Wagner,  not  Captain  Mar- 
yatt,  was  the  inspiration,"  murmured  the 
master. 

The  tormented  vessel  stormed  down  the 
picture,  every  inch  of  sail  bellying  out  in  a 
wind  that  blew  a  gale  infernal  beneath  the  rays, 
so  il  seemed  to  us,  of  a  poisonous  golden  moon. 
The  water  was  massive  and  rhythmic.  In  the 
first  plane  a  smaller  ship  does  not  even  at 
tempt  to  tack.  You  anticipate  the  speedy 
crackling  and  smashing  when  the  Flying  Dutch 
man  rides  over  her;  but  it  never  happens. 
Like  the  moonshine,  the  phantom  ship  may 
melt  into  air-bubbles  before  it  reaches  the 
other  boat.  No  figures  are  shown.  Never 
theless,  as  we  studied  the  picture  we  fancied 
that  we  discerned  the  restless  soul  of  Vander- 
166 


THE  LOST  MASTER 

decken  pacing  his  quarter-deck,  cursing  the 
elements,  or  longing  for  some  far-away  Senta. 
A  poetic  composition  handled  with  masterly 
evasiveness,  the  colour  was  the  strangest  part 
of  it.  Where  had  Albertus  caught  the  secret 
of  that  flowing  gold,  potable  gold;  gold  that 
threateningly  blazed  in  the  storm  wrack,  gold 
as  lyric  as  sunshine  in  spring!  And  why  such 
sinister  gold  in  a  moonlit  sea?  We  suspected 
illusion.  My  friend,  the  painter,  laughed: 
"Aha!  you  are  looking  for  the  sun,  and  is  it 
only  a  moon  overhead?  Our  conjurer  here 
has  a  few  tricks.  Know  then,  credulous  one, 
that  the  moon  yonder  is  really  the  sun.  Seek 
the  reason  for  that  suffused  back  sky,  realise 
that  the  solar  photosphere  in  a  mist  is  precisely 
the  breeder  of  all  this  magic  gold  you  so  envy." 
"Yes,"  we  exclaimed,  "but  the  motion  of  it 
all,  the  grip!  Only  Turner — "  We  were 
interrupted  by  a  friendly  slap  on  the  back. 
"Now,  you  are  talking  sense,"  said  our  frie^. 
"Turner,  a  new  Turner,  who  has  heard  the 
music  of  Wagner  and  read  the  magic  prose  of 
Joseph  Conrad."  What  followed  we  shall  not 
pretend  to  describe.  Landscapes  of  old  ivory 
and  pearly  greys;  portraits,  in  which  varnish 
modulated  with  colours  of  a  gamut  of  intensity 
that  set  tingling  the  eyeballs,  and  played  a 
series  of  tonal  variations  in  the  thick  of  which 
the  theme  was  lost,  hinted  at,  emerged  trium 
phantly,  and  at  the  end  vanished  in  the  glorious 
arabesque;  then  followed  apocalyptic  visions, 
167 


THE  LOST  MASTER 

in  which  the  solid  earth  staggered  through  the 
empyrean  after  a  black  sun  —  a  magnetic  disk 
doomed  by  a  mighty  voice  that  cried  aloud: 
"It  is  accomplished."  Pastorals  as  ravishing 
as  Giorgione's,  with  nuances  of  gold  undreamed 
of  since  the  yellow  flecks  in  the  robes  of  Rem 
brandt,  faced  us.  Our  very  souls  centred  in 
our  eyes;  but,  uncritical  as  was  our  mood  in 
the  presence  of  all  this  imaginative  art,  we 
could  not  help  noting  that  it  was  without  a 
single  trait  of  the  modern.  Both  in  theme  and 
treatment  these  pictures  might  have  been 
painted  at  the  time  of  the  Renaissance.  The 
varnish  was  as  wonderful  as  that  on  the  belly 
of  a  Stradivarius  riddle.  The  blues  were  of  a 
celestial  quality  to  be  found  in  Titian  or  Ver- 
meer;  the  resonant  browns,  the  whites  —  ah! 
such  exquisite  whites,  "plus  blanche  que  la 
plus  blanche  hermine" —  the  rich  blacks,  so 
norous  reds  and  yellows  —  what  were  all  these 
but  secrets  recovered  from  the  old  masters. 
The  subjects  were  mainly  legendary  or  myth 
ological;  no  discordant  note  of  "modernity" 
obtruded  its  ugly  self.  We  were  in  the  presence 
of  something  as  rare  as  a  lyric  by  Shelley  or  the 
playing  of  Frederic  Chopin. 

What !  Why !  How !  we  felt  like  asking  all 
at  once,  but  Albertus  Magnus  only  smiled, 
and  we  choked  our  emotion.  Why  had  he 
never  exhibited  at  the  Academy  or  at  a  special 
show  ?  Our  friend  saw  our  embarrassment,  and 
shielded  us  by  blurting  out:  "No!  he  never 
168 


THE  LOST  MASTER 

exhibited,  this  obstinate  Albertus.  He  never 
will.  He  makes  more  money  than  he  needs, 
and  will  leave  it  to  some  cat  asylum,  for  he  is 
a  hardened  bachelor.  Women  do  not  interest 
him.  You  won't  find  one  female  head  in  all 
this  amazing  collection.  Nor  has  the  dear  old 
Diogenes  suffered  from  a  love-affair.  His  only 
love  is  his  paint.  His  one  weakness  is  a  selfish, 
a  miserly  desire  to  keep  all  this  beautiful  paint 
for  himself.  Balzac  would  have  delighted  to 
analyse  such  a  peculiar  mania.  Degas  is  amia 
bility  itself  compared  with  this  curmudgeon  of 
genius.  Now,  don't  stop  me,  Albertus — " 
"But  I  must,"  expostulated  the  painter.  "I 
am  always  glad  to  receive  visitors  here  if  they 
are  not  dealers  or  persons  ignorant  of  art,  or 
those  who  think  the  moderns  can  paint.  Yet 
no  one  comes  to  see  me.  My  chattering  friend 
here  occasionally  asks  them,  and  he  is  a 
hoaxer.  While  I  go  nowhere  —  I  haven't  been 
east  of  Ninth  Avenue  for  years.  What  shall  I 
do?"  " Paint!"  was  the  curt  answer  of  our 
friend,  as  we  took  our  leave.  In  New  York, 
now,  a  painter  of  genius  who  is  known  to 
few!  Extraordinary!  Is  his  name  really  Al 
bertus  Magnus,  or  is  that  only  Latin  for  Albert 
Ryder  ?  Our  friend  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
smiled  mysteriously.  We  hate  tomfoolery.  "  Be 
frank!"  we  adjured  him.  He  hummed:  "In 
Vishnu  land  what  avatar?"  "More  Browning !" 
we  sneered. 

Then  we  crossed  over  to  the  club  and  talked 
169 


THE  LOST  MASTER 

art  far  into  the  night.  Also  wet  our  clay.  And 
Albertus  Magnus,  will  he  never  come  from  his 
paint  cave  and  reveal  to  the  world  his  master 
pieces?  Perhaps.  Who  knows?  As  the  Rus 
sians  say  —  Avos! 


170 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  GRAND  MANNER  IN 
PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

HERE  lies  one  whose  name  is  writ  on  ivory ! 
might  be  the  epigraph  of  every  great  pianist's 
life,  and  the  ivory  is  about  as  perdurable  stuff 
as  the  water  in  which  is  written  the  epitaph 
of  John  Keats.  Despite  cunning  reproductive 
contrivances  the  executive  musician  has  no 
more  chance  of  lasting  fame  than  the  actor. 
The  career  of  both  is  brief,  but  brilliant.  Glory, 
then,  is  largely  a  question  of  memory,  and  when 
the  contemporaries  of  a  tonal  artist  pass  away 
then  he  has  no  existence  except  in  the  bio 
graphical  dictionaries.  Creative,  not  inter 
pretative,  art  endures.  Better  be  "immortal" 
while  you  are  alive,  which  wish  may  ac 
count  for  the  number  of  young  men  who  write 
their  memoirs  while  their  cheeks  are  still  vir 
ginal  of  beards,  while  the  pianist  or  violinist 
plays  his  autobiography,  and  this  may  be  some 
compensation  for  the  eternal  injustice  mani 
fested  in  matters  mundane. 

Whosoever  heard   the  lion-like  velvet  paws 

of  Anton  Rubinstein  caress  the  keyboard  shall 

never  forget  the  music.     He  is  the  greatest 

pianist  in  my  long  and  varied  list.    Think  of 

171 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

his  delivery  of  the  theme  at  the  opening  of 
Beethoven's  G  major  concerto;  or  in  that  last 
page  of  Chopin's  Barcarolle.  It  was  no  longer 
the  piano  tone,  but  the  sound  of  distant  waters 
and  horns  from  elf-land.  A  mountain  of  fire 
blown  skyward,  when  the  elemental  in  his 
profoundly  passionate  temperament  broke  loose, 
he  could  roar  betimes  as  gently  as  a  dove.  Yet, 
when  I  last  heard  him  in  Paris,  the  few  remain 
ing  pupils  of  Chopin  declared  that  he  was 
brutal  in  his  treatment  of  their  master.  He 
played  Rubinstein,  not  Chopin,  said  Georges 
Mathias  to  me.  Mathias  knew,  for  he  had 
heard  the  divine  Frederic  play.  Nevertheless, 
Rubinstein  played  Chopin,  the  greater  and 
the  miniature,  as  no  one  before  or  since. 

To  each  generation  its  music-making.  The 
"grand  manner"  in  piano-playing  has  almost 
vanished.  A  few  artists  still  live  who  illustrate 
this  manner;  you  may  count  them  on  the  fin 
gers  of  one  hand.  Rosen  thai,  D' Albert,  Carreno, 
Friedheim  —  Reisenaur  had  the  gift,  too  —  how 
many  others?  Paderewski  I  heard  play  in 
Leipsic  in  1912  at  a  Gewandhaus  concert  under 
the  baton  of  the  greatest  living  conductor, 
Arthur  Nikisch,  and  I  can  vouch  for  the  plan 
gent  tone  quality  and  the  poetic  reading  he  dis 
played  in  his  performance  of  that  old  war-horse, 
the  F  minor  concerto  of  Chopin.  Furthermore, 
my  admiration  of  Paderewski's  gift  as  a  com 
poser  was  considerably  increased  after  hearing 
his  Polish  symphony  interpreted  by  Nikisch. 
172 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

How  far  away  we  were  from  Manru.  Joseffy, 
who  looked  upon  Paderewski,  as  a  rare  per 
sonality,  told  me  that  the  Polish  Fantasy  for 
piano  and  orchestra  puzzled  him  because  of  its 
seeming  simplicity  in  figuration.  "Only  the 
composer,"  enthusiastically  exclaimed  Joseffy, 
"could  have  made  it  so  wonderful." 

But  the  grand  manner,  has  it  become  too 
artificial,  too  rhetorical?  It  has  gone  out  of 
fashion  with  the  eloquence  of  the  old  histrions, 
probably  because  of  the  rarity  of  its  exponents; 
also  because  it  no  longer  appeals  to  a  matter-of- 
fact  public.  Liszt  was  the  first.  He  was  dithy- 
rambic.  He  was  a  volcano;  Thalberg  —  his 
one-time  rival  —  possessed  all  the  smooth  and 
icy  perfections  of  Nesselrode  pudding.  Liszt 
in  reality  never  had  but  two  rivals  close  to  his 
throne;  Karl  Tausig,  the  Pole,  and  Anton 
Rubinstein,  the  Russian.  Von  Billow  was  all 
intellect;  his  Bach,  Beethoven,  Chopin,  and 
Brahms  were  cerebral,  not  emotional.  He  had 
the  temperament  of  the  pedant.  I  first  heard 
him  in  Philadelphia  in  1876  at  the  Academy  of 
Music.  He  introduced  the  Tschaikovsky  B 
flat  minor  concerto,  with  B.  J.  Lang  directing 
the  orchestra,  a  quite  superfluous  proceeding, 
as  Von  Billow  gave  the  cues  from  the  keyboard 
and  distinctly  cursed  the  conductor,  the  band, 
the  composition,  and  his  own  existence,  as  be 
fitted  a  disciple  of  Schopenhauer.  Oh !  he  could 
be  fiery  enough,  though  in  his  playing  of  the 
Romantics  the  fervent  note  was  absent;  but 
173 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

his  rhythmic  attack  was  crisp  and  irresistible. 
You  need  only  recall  the  pungency  of  his  read 
ing  of  Beethoven's  Scherzo  in  the  Sonata  Opus 
31,  No.  3.  It  was  staccato  as  a  hail-storm. 
Two  years  later,  in  Paris,  I  heard  the  same 
concerto  played  by  Nicholas  Rubinstein  at  the 
Trocadero  (Exposition,  1878),  the  very  man 
who  had  first  flouted  the  work  so  rudely  that 
Tschaikovsky,  deeply  offended,  changed  the 
dedication  to  Von  Billow. 

Anton  Rubinstein  displayed  the  grand 
manner.  His  style  was  a  compound  of  tiger's 
blood  and  honey.  Notwithstanding  the  gossip 
about  his  " false  notes"  (he  wrote  a  Study  on 
False  Notes,  as  if  in  derision),  he  was,  with 
Tausig  and  Liszt,  a  supreme  stylist.  He  was 
not  always  in  practice  and  most  of  the  music 
he  wrote  for  his  numerous  tours  was  composed 
in  haste  and  repented  of  at  leisure.  It  is  now 
almost  negligible.  The  D  minor  concerto  re 
minds  one  of  a  much-traversed  railroad-station. 
But  Rubinstein  the  virtuoso!  It  was  in  1873 
I  heard  him,  but  I  was  too  young  to  understand 
him.  Fifteen  years  later,  or  thereabouts,  he 
gave  his  Seven  Historical  Recitals  in  Paris  and 
I  attended  the  series,  not  once,  but  twice.  He 
played  many  composers,  but  for  me  he  seemed 
to  be  playing  the  Book  of  Job,  the  Apocalypse, 
and  the  Scarlet  Sarafan.  He  had  a  ductile  tone 
like  a  golden  French  horn  —  Joseffy's  compari 
son  — and  the  power  and  passion  of  the  man 
have  never  been  equalled.  Neither  Tausig  nor 
174 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

Liszt  did  I  hear,  worse  luck,  but  there  were 
plenty  of  witnesses  to  tell  me  of  the  differences. 
Liszt,  it  seems,  when  at  his  best,  was  both 
Rubinstein  and  Tausig  combined,  with  Von 
Billow  thrown  in.  Anton  Rubinstein  played 
every  school  with  consummate  skill,  from  the 
iron  certitudes  of  Bach's  polyphony  to  the 
magic  murmurs  of  Chopin  and  the  romantic 
rustling  in  the  moonlit  garden  of  Schumann. 
Beethoven,  too,  he  interpreted  with  intellec 
tual  and  emotional  vigour.  Yet  this  magnif 
icent  Calmuck  —  he  wasn't  of  course,  though 
he  had  Asiatic  features  —  grew  weary  of  his 
instrument,  as  did  Liszt,  and  fought  the  stars 
in  their  courses  by  composing.  But  his  name 
is  writ  in  ivory,  and  not  in  enduring  music. 

Scudo  said  that  when  Sigismund  Thalberg 
played,  his  scales  were  like  perfectly  strung 
pearls  falling  on  scarlet  velvet;  with  Liszt 
the  pearls  had  become  red  hot.  This  extrava 
gant  image  is  of  value.  We  have  gone  back 
to  the  Thalbergian  pearls,  for  too  much  pas 
sion  in  piano-playing  is  voted  bad  taste  to 
day.  Nuance,  then  colour,  and  ripe  concep 
tion.  Technique  for  technique's  sake  is  no 
longer  a  desideratum;  furthermore,  as  Felix 
Leifels  wittily  remarked:  "No  one  plays  the 
piano  badly";  just  as  no  one  acts  Hamlet  dis 
reputably.  Mr.  Leifels,  as  a  veteran  contra- 
bassist  and  at  present  manager  of  the  Philhar 
monic  Society,  ought  to  be  an  authority  on  the 
subject;  the  old  Philharmonic  has  had  all  the 
175 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

pianists,  from  H.  C.  Timm,  in  1844  —  a  Hum 
mel  concerto  —  to  Thalberg  and  Rubinstein, 
Joseffy,  Paderewski,  and  Josef  Hofmann.  Truly 
the  standard  of  virtuosity  is  higher  than  it  was 
a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  Girls  give  recitals 
with  programmes  that  are  staggering.  The 
Chopin  concertos  now  occupy  the  position,  tech 
nically  speaking,  of  the  Hummel  and  Mendels 
sohn  concertos.  Every  one  plays  Chopin  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and,  with  a  few  exceptions 
horribly.  Yes,  Mr.  Leifels  is  right;  no  one 
plays  the  piano  badly,  yet  new  Rubinsteins  do 
not  materialise. 

The  year  of  the  Centennial  Exposition  in 
Philadelphia,  1876,  was  a  memorable  one  ior 
visiting  pianists.  I  heard  not  only  Hans  von 
Billow,  but  also  two  beautiful  women,  one  at 
the  apex  of  her  artistic  career,  Annette  Essi- 
poff  (or  Essipowa)  and  Teresa  Carreno,  just 
starting  on  her  triumphal  road  to  fame.  Es 
sipowa  was  later  the  wife  of  Leschetizky  — 
maybe  she  was  married  then  —  and  she  was 
the  most  poetic  of  all  women  pianists  that  I 
have  heard.  Clara  Schumann  was  as  musical, 
but  she  was  aged  when  I  listened  to  her.  Essi 
powa  played  Chopin  as  only  a  Russian  can. 
They  are  all  Slavs,  these  Poles  and  Russians, 
and  no  other  nation,  except  the  Hungarian, 
interpret  Chopin.  Probably  the  greatest  Ger 
man  virtuoso  was  Adolf  Henselt,  Bavarian- 
born,  though  a  resident  of  Petrograd.  He  had 
a  Chopin-like  temperament  and  played  that 
176 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

master's  music  so  well  that  Schumann  called 
him  the  "German  Chopin."  Essipowa,  I  need 
hardly  tell  you,  communicated  no  little  of  her 
gracious  charm  to  Paderewski.  He  learned 
more  from  her  plastic  style  than  from  all  the 
precepts  of  Leschetizky. 

On  a  hot  night  in  1876,  and  in  old  Associa-* 
tion  Hall,  I  first  saw  and  heard  Teresa  (then 
Teresita)  Carrefio.  I  say  "saw"  advisedly,  for 
she  was  a  blooming  girl,  and  at  the  time  shared 
the  distinction  with  Adelaide  Neilson  and  Mrs. 
Scott-Siddons  of  being  one  of  the  three  most 
beautiful  women  on  the  stage.  Carrefio,  still 
vital,  still  handsome,  and  still  the  conquering 
artist,  till  her  death  last  spring,  was  in  that 
far-away  day  fresh  from  Venezuela,  a  pupil  of 
Gottschalk  and  Anton  Rubinstein.  She  wore  a 
scarlet  gown,  as  fiery  as  her  playing,  and  when 
I  wish  to  recall  her  I  close  my  eyes  and 
straightway  as  if  in  a  scarlet  mist  I  see  her,  hear 
her;  for  her  playing  has  always  been  scarlet  to 
me,  as  Rubinstein's  is  golden,  and  Josefiy's  sil 
very. 

The  French  group  I  have  heard,  beginning 
with  Theodore  Ritter,  who  came  to  New  York 
in  company  with  Carlo tta  Patti;  Plante  — 
still  living  and  over  eighty,  so  I  have  been  told 
by  M.  Phillipp;  Saint-Saens,  whom  I  first  saw 
and  heard  at  the  Trocadero,  Paris,  with  his 
pupil,  Montigny-Remaury;  Clotilde  Kleeberg, 
Diemer,  Risler;  the  venerable  Georges  Mathias, 
a  pupil  of  Chopin;  Raoul  Pugno,  who  was 
177 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

veritably  a  pugnacious  pianist,  Cecile  Cha- 
minade,  Marie  Jaell,  and  her  corpulent  hus 
band,  Alfred  Jaell. 

Eugen  d'Albert,  surely  the  greatest  of  Scotch 
pianists  —  he  was  born  at  Glasgow,  though 
musically  educated  in  London  —  is  another 
heaven-stormer.  I  heard  him  at  Berlin  some 
years  ago,  in  Philharmonic  Hall,  and  people 
stood  up  in  their  excitement  —  Liszt  redi- 
^vivus ! 

It  was  the  grand  manner  in  its  most  chaotic 
form.  «•  A  musical  volcano  belching  up  lava, 
scoriae,  rocks,  hunks  of  Beethoven  —  the  Ap- 
passionata  Sonata  it  happened  to  be  —  while 
the  infuriated  little  Vulcan  threw  emotional 
fuel  into  his  furnace.  The  unfortunate  instru 
ment  must  have  been  a  mass  of  splintered 
steel,  wood,  and  wire  after  the  musical  giant  had 
finished.  It  was  a  magnificent  spectacle,  and 
the  music  glorious.  Eugen  d'Albert,  whether  he 
is  or  isn't  the  son  of  Karl  Tausig  —  as  Weimar 
gossip  had  it;  Weimar,  when  in  the  palmy 
days  every  other  pianist  you  met  was  a  natural 
son  of  Liszt  —  or  else  pretended  to  be  one- 
has  more  than  a  moiety  of  that  virtuoso's 
genius.  He  is  a  great  artist,  and  occasionally 
the  magic  fire  flares  and  lights  up  the  firma 
ment  of  music. 

I  think  it  was  in  1879  that  Rafael  Joseffy 
visited  us  for  the  first  time;  but  I  didn't  hear 
him  till  1880.  The  reason  I  remember  the 
date  is  that  this  greatly  beloved  Hungarian 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

made  his  debut  at  old  Chickering  Hall  (then 
at  Fifth  Avenue  and  Eighteenth  Street);  but 
I  saw  him  in  Steinway  Hall.  Another  magician 
with  a  peculiarly  personal  style.  In  the  be 
ginning  you  thought  of  the  aurora  borealis, 
shooting-stars,  and  exquisite  meteors;  a  beau 
tiful  style,  though  not  a  classic  interpreter 
then.  With  the  years  Joseffy  deepened  and 
broadened.  The  iridescent  shimmer  was  never 
absent.  No  one  played  the  E  minor  Concerto 
of  Chopin  as  did  Joseffy.  He  had  the  tradi 
tion  from  his  beloved  master,  Tausig,  as  Tausig 
had  it  from  Chopin  by  way  of  Liszt.  (Tausig 
always  regretted  that  he  had  never  heard  Chop 
in  play.)  Joseffy,  in  turn,  transmitted  the 
tradition  to  his  early  pupil,  Moriz  Rosenthal, 
in  whose  repertoire  it  is  the  most  Chopinesque 
of  all  his  performances. 

And  do  you  remember  the  Chevalier  de 
Kontski,  Carl  Baermann,  Franz  Rummel,  S. 
B.  Mills  —  who  introduced  here  so  many 
modern  concertos  —  the  huge  Norwegian  Ed 
mund  Neupert,  who  lived  at  the  Hotel  Liszt, 
next  door  to  Steinway  Hall,  Cons  tan  tin  von 
Sternberg,  and  Max  Vogrich,  the  Hungarian 
with  the  Chopin-like  profile? 

In  the  same  school  as  Joseffy  is  the  capricious 
De  Pachmann;  with  Joseffy  I  sat  at  the  first 
recital  of  this  extraordinary  Russian  in  Chicker 
ing  Hall  (1890).  Joseffy,  with  his  accustomed 
generosity  of  spirit  —  he  was  the  most  sym 
pathetic  and  human  of  great  virtuosi  —  at  once 
179 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

recognised  the  artistic  worth  of  Vladimir  de 
Pachmann.  This  last  representative  of  a  school 
that  included  the  names  of  Hummel,  Cramer, 
Field,  Thalberg,  Chopin,  the  little  De  Pach 
mann  (he  was  then  bearded  like  a  pirate)  cap 
tivated  us.  It  was  all  miniature,  without 
passion  or  pathos  or  the  grand  manner,  but  in 
its  genre  his  playing  was  perfection;  the  polished 
perfection  of  an  intricately  carved  ivory  orna 
ment.  De  Pachmann  played  certain  sides  of 
Chopin  incomparably;  capriciously,  even  per 
versely.  In  a  small  hall,  sitting  on  a  chair 
that  precisely  suited  his  fidgety  spirit,  then, 
if  in  the  mood,  a  recital  by  him  was  something 
unforgettable. 

After  De  Pachmann  —  Paderewski.  Pa- 
derewski,  the  master-colourist,  the  grand  vi 
sionary,  whose  art  is  often  strained,  morbid, 
fantastic.  And  after  Paderewski?  Why,  Leo 
pold  Godowsky,  of  course.  He  belongs  to  the 
Joseffy-De  Pachmann,  not  to  the  Rubinstein- 
Josef  Hofmann,  group.  I  once  called  him  the 
superman  of  piano-playing.  Nothing  like  him, 
as  far  as  I  know,  is  to  be  found  in  the  history 
of  piano-playing  since  Chopin.  He  is  an  ap 
parition.  A  Chopin  doubled  by  a  contrapunta- 
list.  Bach  and  Chopin.  The  spirit  of  the 
German  cantor  and  the  Polish  tone-poet  in 
curious  conjunction.  His  playing  is  transcen 
dental;  his  piano  compositions  the  transcen 
dentalism  of  the  future.  That  way,  else 
retrogression!  All  has  been  accomplished  in 
1 80 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

ideas  and  figuration.  A  new  synthesis  —  the 
combination  of  seemingly  disparate  elements 
and  styles  —  with  innumerable  permutations, 
he  has  accomplished.  He  is  a  miracle-worker. 
The  Violet  Ray.  Dramatic  passion,  flame,  and 
fury  are  not  present;  they  would  be  intruders 
on  his  map  of  music.  The  piano  tone  is  al 
ways  legitimate,  never  forced.  But  every  other 
attribute  he  boasts.  His  ten  digits  are  ten  in 
dependent  voices  recreating  the  ancient  poly 
phonic  art  of  the  Flemings.  He  is  like  a  Brah 
ma  at  the  piano.  Before  his  serene  and 
all-embracing  vision  every  school  appears  and 
disappears  in  the  void.  The  beauty  of  his 
touch  and  tone  are  only  matched  by  the  del 
icate  adjustment  of  his  phrasing  to  the  larger 
curve  of  the  composition.  Nothing  musical  is 
foreign  to  him.  He  is  a  pianist  for  pianists,  and 
I  am  glad  to  say  that  the  majority  of  them 
gladly  recognise  this  fact. 

One  evening  Godowsky  was  playing  his 
piano  sonata  with  its  subtle  intimations  of 
Brahms,  Chopin,  and  Liszt,  and  its  altogether 
Godowskian  colour  and  rhythmic  life  —  he 
is  the  greatest  creator  of  rhythmic  values  since 
Liszt,  and  that  is  a  "large  order" — when  he 
was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Josef  Hof- 
mann.  Godowsky  and  Hofmann  are  as  in 
separable  as  were  Chopin  and  Liszt.  Heine 
called  the  latter  pair  the  Dioscurii  of  music. 
In  the  Godowsky  apartment  stood  several 
concert  grands.  Hofmann  nonchalantly  re- 
181 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

moved  his  coat  and,  making  an  apology  for 
disturbing  us,  he  went  into  another  room  and 
soon  we  heard  him  slowly  practising.  What 
do  you  suppose?  Some  new  concerto  with 
new-fangled  bedevilments  ?  O  Sancta  Sim- 
plicitas!  This  giant,  if  ever  there  was  one, 
played  at  a  funereal  tempo  the  octave  pas 
sages  in  the  left  hand  of  the  Heroic  Polonaise 
of  Chopin  (Opus  53).  Every  schoolgirl  rattles 
them  off  as  "easy,"  but,  with  the  humility  of  a 
great  artist,  Hofmann  practised  the  section  as 
if  it  were  still  a  stumbling-block.  De  Lenz  re 
cords  that  Tausig  did  the  same. 

Later,  Conductor  Artur,  Bodanzky  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  dropped  in,  and  several 
pianists  and  critics  followed,  and  soon  the 
Polish  pianist  was  playing  for  us  all  some  well- 
known  compositions  by  a  certain  Dvorsky; 
also  an  extremely  brilliant  and  effective  concert 
study  in  C  minor  by  Constantin  von  Sternberg.1 
From  1888,  when  he  was  a  wonder-child  here,1 
Jozio  Hermann's  artistic  development  has  been 
logical  and  continuous.  His  mellow  muscularity 
evokes  Rubinstein.  No  one  plays  Rubinstein 
as  does  this  Harmonious  Blacksmith  —  and 
with  the  piety  of  Rubinstein's  pet  pupil.  I 
once,  compared  him  to  a  steam-hammer,  whose 
marvellous  sensitivity  enables  it  to  crack  an 
egg-shell  or  crush  iron.  Hofmann's  range  of 
tonal  dynamics  is  unequalled,  even  in  this 
age  of  perfected  piano  technique.  He  is  at  home 
in  all  schools,  and  his  knowledge  is  enormous. 
182 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

At  moments  his  touch  is  as  rich  as  a  Kneisel 
Quartet  accord. 

At  the  famous  Rudolph  Schirmer  dinner, 
given  in  1915,  among  other  distinguished  guests 
there  were  nearly  a  score  of  piano  virtuosi. 
The  newspapers  humorously  commented  upon 
the  fact  that  there  was  not  a  squabble,  though 
with  so  many  nationalities  one  row,  at  least, 
might  have  been  expected.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  if  any  discussion  had  arisen  it  would  not 
have  been  over  politics,  but  about  the  fingering 
of  the  Double-Note  Study  in  G  sharp  minor 
of  Chopin,  so  difficult  to  play  slowly  —  the 
most  formidable  of  argument-breeding  ques 
tions  among  pianists.  A  parterre  of  pianists, 
indeed,  some  in  New  York  because  of  the  war, 
while  Paderewski  and  Rosenthal  were  conspicu 
ous  by  their  absence.  Think  of  a  few  names: 
Joseffy  —  he  died  several  months  later,  Ga- 
brilowitsch,  Hofmann,  Godowsky,  Carl  Fried- 
berg,  Mark  Hambourg  —  a  heaven-stormer  in 
the  Rubinstein-Hercules  manner — Leonard  Ber 
wick,  Alexander  Lambert,  Ernest  Schelling, 
Stojowski,  Percy  Grainger  —  the  young  Sieg 
fried  of  the  Antipodes  —  August  Fraemcke,  Cor 
nelius  Ruebner,  and  —  another  apparition  in  the 
world  of  piano-playing  —  Ferruccio  Busoni. 

This  Italian,  the  greatest  of  Italian  piano 
virtuosi  —  the  history  of  which  can  claim  such 
names  as  Domenico  Scarlatti,  Clementi,  Fumi- 
galli,  Martucci,  Sgambati  —  is  also  a  composer 
who  has  set  agog  conservative  critics  by  the 

183 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

boldness  of  his  imagination.  As  an  artist  he 
may  be  said  to  embody  the  intellectuality  of 
Von  Billow,  the  technical  brilliancy  of  ,the  Liszt 
group.  Busoni  is  eminently  a  musical  thinker. 
America  probably  will  never  again  harbour 
such  a  constellation  of  piano  talent.  I  some 
times  wonder  if  the  vanished  generation  of 
piano  artists  played  much  better  than  those 
men.  Godowsky,  Hofmann,  the  lyric  and  most 
musical  Harold  Bauer;  the  many-sided,  richly 
endowed,  and  charming  Ossip  Gabrilowitsch, 
Hambourg,  Busoni,  and  Paderewski  are  not 
often  matched.  Heine  called  Thalberg  a  king, 
Liszt  a  prophet,  Chopin  a  poet,  Herz  an  ad 
vocate,  Kalkbrenner  a  minstrel  (not  a  negro 
minstrel,  for  a  chalk-burner  is  necessarily 
white),  Mme.  Pleyel  a  sibyl,  and  Doehler  —  a 
pianist !  The  contemporary  piano  hierarchy 
might  be  thus  classed:  Josef  Hofmann,  a  king; 
Paderewski,  a  poet;  Godowsky,  a  prophet; 
Fannie  Bloomfield-Zeisler,  a  sibyl;  D' Albert,  a 
titan;  Busoni,  a  philosopher;  Rosen  thai,  a  hero, 
and  Alexander  Lambert  —  a  pianist.  Well,  Mr. 
Lambert  may  be  congratulated  on  such  an 
ascription;  Doehler  was  a  great  technician  in  his 
day,  and  when  the  " friend  of  pianists"  (Lam 
bert  could  pattern  after  Schindler,  whose  visit 
ing-card  read:  "TAmi  de  Beethoven")  masters 
his  modesty  an  admirable  piano  virtuoso  is  re 
vealed.  So  let  him  be  satisfied  with  the  hon 
ourable  appellation  of  "pianist."  He  is  in  good 
company. 

184 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

And  the  ladies !  I  am  sorry  I  can't  say, 
"place  aux  dames!"  Space  forbids.  I've 
heard  them  all,  from  Arabella  Goddard  to  Mme. 
Montigny-Remaury  (in  Paris,  1878,  with  her 
master,  Camille  Saint-Saens) ;  from  Alide  Topp, 
Marie  Krebs,  Anna  Mehlig,  Pauline  Fichtner, 
Vera  Timinoff,  Ingeborg  Bronsart,  Madeline 
Schiller,  to  Julia  Rive-King;  from  Cecilia  Gaul 
and  Svarvady-Clauss  to  Anna  Bock;  from  the 
Amazon,  Sofie  Menter,  the  most  masculine  of 
Liszt  players,  to  Adele  Margulies,  Yoland  Macro, 
and  Antoinette  Szumowska-Adamowska;  from 
Ilonka  von  Ravacsz  to  Ethel  Leginska  —  who 
plays  like  a  house  afire;  from  Helen  Hopekirk  to 
Katharine  Goodson;  from  Clara  Schumann  to 
Fannie  Bloomfield-Zeisler,  Olga  Samaroff,  and 
the  newly  come  Brazilian  Guiomar  Novaes —  the 
list  might  be  unduly  prolonged. 

I  heard  Paderewski  play  last  spring.  Surely  he 
has  now  the  " grand  manner"  in  all  its  dramatic 
splendour,  and  without  its  old-fashioned  pre 
tentious  rhetoric.  Nor  has  he  lost  the  luscious- 
ness  of  his  touch  —  a  Caruso  voice  on  the  key 
board —  or  the  poetic  intensity  of  his  Chopin 
and  Schumann  interpretations.  He  is  still 
Prince  Charming. 

Not  only  do  I  fear  prolixity,  but  the  con 
fusing  of  critical  values,  for  I  write  from  mem 
ory,  and  I  admit  that  I've  had  more  pleasure 
from  the  " intimate"  pianists  than  from  the 
forgers  of  tonal  thunderbolts;  that  is  —  Rubin 
stein  excepted  —  from  such  masters  in  minia- 

185 


PIANOFORTE  PLAYING 

ture  as  Joseffy,  Godowsky,  Carl  Heyman,  De 
Pachmann,  and  Paderewski.  I  find  in  the 
fresh,  sparkling  playing  of  Mischa  Levitski, 
Benno  Moiseivich,  and  Guiomar  Novaes  high 
promise  for  their  future.  The  latter  came  here 
unheralded  and  as  the  pupil  of  that  sterling 
virtuoso  and  pedagogue,  Isidor  Phillipp  of  the 
Paris  Conservatory. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  only  Chopin,  Liszt,  and 
Von  Billow  were  Christian  born  among  the  su 
preme  masters  of  the  keyboard;  the  rest  (with 
a  few  exceptions)  were  and  are  members  of  that 
race  whose  religious  tenets  specifically  incline 
them  to  the  love  and  practice  of  music. 


186 


CHAPTER  XVI 
JAMES  JOYCE 

WHO  is  James  Joyce?  is  a  question  that  was 
answered  by  John  Quinn,  who  told  us  that  the 
new  writer  was  from  Dublin  and  at  present 
residing  in  Switzerland;  that  he  is  not  in  good 
health  —  his  eyes  trouble  him  —  and  that  he  was 
once  a  student  in  theology,  but  soon  gave  up  the 
idea  of  becoming  a  priest.  He  is  evidently  a 
member  of  the  new  group  of  young  Irish  writers 
who  see  their  country  and  countrymen  in  any 
thing  but  a  flattering  light.  Ireland,  surely 
the  most  beautiful  and  most  melancholy  island 
on  the  globe,  is  not  the  Isle  of  Saints  for  those 
iconoclasts.  George  Moore  is  a  poet  who  hap 
pens  to  write  English,  though  he  often  thinks 
in  French;  Bernard  Shaw,  notwithstanding  his 
native  wit,  is  of  London  and  the  Londoners; 
while  Yeats  and  Synge  are  essentially  Celtic, 
and  both  poets.  Yes,  and  there  is  the  delight 
ful  James  Stephen,  who  mingles  angels'  pin- 
feathers  with  rainbow  gold;  a  magic  decoction 
of  which  we  never  weary.  But  James  Joyce, 
potentially  a  poet,  and  a  realist  of  the  De  Mau 
passant  breed,  envisages  Dublin  and  the  Dub- 
liners  with  a  cruel  scrutinising  gaze.  He  is  as 
truthful  as  Tchekov,  and  as  grey —  that 
187 


JAMES  JOYCE 

Tchekov  compared  with  whose  the  " realism" 
of  De  Maupassant  is  romantic  bric-a-brac, 
gilded  with  a  fine  style.  Joyce  is  as  implacably 
naturalistic  as  the  Russian  in  his  vision  of  the 
sombre,  mean,  petty,  dusty  commonplaces  of 
middle-class  life,  and  he  sometimes  suggests 
the  Frenchman  in  his  clear,  concise,  technical 
methods.  The  man  is  indubitably  a  fresh  talent. 
Emerson,  after  his  experiences  in  Europe, 
became  an  armchair  traveller.  He  positively 
despised  the  idea  of  voyaging  across  the  water 
to  see  what  is  just  as  good  at  home.  He  calls 
Europe  a  tapeworm  in  the  brain  of  his  coun 
trymen.  "The  stuff  of  all  countries  is  just 
the  same."  So  Ralph  Waldo  sat  in  his  chair 
and  enjoyed  thinking  about  Europe,  thus  evad 
ing  the  worries  of  going  there  too  often.  It 
has  its  merit,  this  Emersonian  way,  particularly 
for  souls  easily  disillusioned.  To  anticipate 
too  much  of  a  foreign  city  may  result  in  dis 
appointment.  We  have  all  had  this  experience. 
Paris  resembles  Chicago,  or  Vienna  is  a  second 
Philadelphia  at  times;  it  depends  on  the  colour 
of  your  mood.  Few  countries  have  been  so 
persistently  misrepresented  as  Ireland.  It  is 
lauded  to  the  eleventh  heaven  of  the  Burmese 
or  it  is  a  place  full  of  fighting  devils  in  a  hell 
of  crazy  politics.  Of  course,  it  is  neither,  nor 
is  it  the  land  of  Lover  and  Lever;  Handy  Andy 
and  Harry  Lorrequer  are  there,  but  you  never 
encounter  them  in  Dublin.  John  Synge  got 
nearer  to  the  heart  of  the  peasantry,  and  Yeats 
188 


JAMES  JOYCE 

and  Lady  Gregory  brought  back  from  the  hid 
den  spaces  fairies  and  heroes. 

Is  Father  Ralph  by  Gerald  O'Donovan  a 
veracious  picture  of  Irish  priesthood  and  college 
life?  Is  the  fiction  of  Mr.  Joyce  representative 
of  the  middle  class  and  of  the  Jesuits  ?  A  cloud 
of  contradictory  witnesses  passes  across  the  sky. 
What  is  the  Celtic  character?  Dion  Bouci- 
cault's  The  Shaughraun?  Or  isn't  the  pessi 
mistic  dreamer  with  the  soul  of  a  "wild  goose," 
depicted  in  George  Moore's  story,  the  real 
man?  Celtic  magic,  cried  Matthew  Arnold. 
He  should  have  said,  Irish  magic,  for  while 
the  Irishman  is  a  Celt,  he  is  unlike  his  brethren 
across  the  Channel.  Perhaps  he  is  nearer  to 
the  Sarmatian  than  the  continental  Celt.  Ire 
land  and  Poland!  The  Irish  and  the  Polish! 
Dissatisfied  no  matter  under  which  king !  Not 
Playboys  of  the  Western  World,  but  martyrs 
to  their  unhappy  temperaments. 

The  Dublin  of  Mr.  Joyce  shows  another 
variation  of  this  always  interesting  theme. 
It  is  a  rather  depressing  picture,  his,  of  the 
daily  doings  of  his  contemporaries.  His  novel 
is  called  A  Portrait  of  the  Artist  as  a  Young 
Man,  a  title  quite  original  and  expressive  of 
what  follows;  also  a  title  that  seems  to  have 
emerged  from  the  catalogue  of  an  art-collector. 
It  is  a  veritable  portrait  of  the  artist  as  a  boy, 
a  youth  and  a  young  man.  From  school  to  col 
lege,  from  the  brothel  to  the  confessional,  from 
his  mother's  apron-strings  to  coarse  revelry,  the 


JAMES  JOYCE 

hero  is  put  to  the  torture  by  art  and  relates  the 
story  of  his  blotched  yet  striving  soul.  We  do 
not  recall  a  book  like  this  since  the  autobiogra 
phy  En  Route  of  J.-K.  Huysmans.  This  Pari 
sian  of  Dutch  extraction  is  in  the  company  of 
James  Joyce.  Neither  writer  stops  at  the  half 
way  house  of  reticence.  It's  the  House  of  Flesh 
in  its  most  sordid  aspects,  and  the  human  soul 
is  occasionally  illuminated  by  gleams  from  the 
grace  of  God.  With  both  men  the  love  of  Rabe 
laisian  speech  is  marked.  This,  if  you  please,  is  a 
Celtic  trait.  Not  even  the  Elizabethans  so  joyed 
in  " green"  words,  as  the  French  say,  as  do  some 
Irish.  Of  richest  hue  are  his  curses,  and  the 
Prince  of  Obliquity  himself  must  chuckle  when 
he  overhears  one  Irishman  consign  another  to 
everlasting  damnation  by  the  turn  of  his  tongue. 
Stephen,  the  hero  of  A  Portrait  of  the  Artist 
as  a  Young  Man,  tells  his  student  friend  about 
his  father.  These  were  his  attributes:  "A 
medical  student,  an  oarsman,  a  tenor,  an  ama 
teur  actor,  a  shouting  politician,  a  small  land 
lord,  a  small  investor,  a  drinker,  a  good  fellow, 
a  story-teller,  somebody's  secretary,  something 
in  a  distillery,  a  tax-gatherer,  a  bankrupt,  at 
present  a  praiser  of  his  own  past."  He  could 
talk  the  devil  out  of  the  liver-wing  of  a  tur 
key —  as  they  say  up  Cork  way.  The  por 
trait  is  well-nigh  perfect.  The  wild  goose  over 
again,  and  ever  on  the  wing.  Stephen  became 
violently  pious  after  a  retreat  at  the  Jesuits. 
From  the  extreme  of  riotous  living  he  was 
190 


JAMES  JOYCE 

transformed  into  a  militant  Catholic.  The 
reverend  fathers  had  hopes  of  him.  He  was 
an  excellent  Latinist,  but  his  mind  was  too 
speculative;  later  it  proved  his  spiritual  un 
doing.  To  analyse  the  sensibility  of  a  soul 
mounting  on  flaming  pinions  to  God  is  easier 
than  to  describe  the  modulations  of  a  moral 
recidivist.  Stephen  fell  away  from  his  faith, 
though  he  did  not  again  sink  into  the  slough  of 
Dublin  low  life.  Cranly,  the  student,  saw 
through  the  hole  in  his  sceptical  millstone. 
"It  is  a  curious  thing,  do  you  know,"  Cranly 
said  dispassionately,  "how  your  mind  is  super 
saturated  with  the  religion  in  which  you  say 
you  disbelieve."  A  profound  remark.  Once 
a  Roman  Catholic  always  a  Roman  Catholic, 
particularly  if  you  are  born  in  Ireland. 

Mr.  Joyce  holds  the  scales  evenly.  He 
neither  abuses  nor  praises.  He  is  evidently 
out  of  key  with  religious  life;  yet  he  speaks  of 
the  Jesuits  with  affection  and  admiration.  The 
sermons  preached  by  them  during  the  retreat 
are  models.  They  are  printed  in  full  —  strange 
material  for  a  novel.  And  he  can  show  us  the 
black  hatred  caused  by  the  clash  of  political 
and  religious  opinions.  There  is  a  scene  of 
this  sort  in  the  house  of  Stephen's  parents  that 
simply  blazes  with  verity.  At  a  Christmas 
dinner  the  argument  between  Dante  (a  certain 
Mrs.  Riordan)  and  Mr.  Casey  spoils  the  af 
fair.  Stephen's  father  carves  the  turkey  and 
tries  to  stop  the  mouths  of  the  angry  man  and 
191 


JAMES  JOYCE 

woman  with  food.  The  mother  implores. 
Stephen  stolidly  gobbles,  watching  the  row, 
which  culminates  with  Mr.  Casey  losing  his 
temper  —  he  has  had  several  tumblers  of  moun 
tain  dew  and  is  a  little  "how  come  you  so?" 
He  bursts  forth:  "No  God  in  Ireland!  We 
have  had  too  much  God  in  Ireland!  Away 
with  God!"  "Blasphemer!  Devil!"  screamed 
Dante,  starting  to  her  feet  and  almost  spitting 
in  his  face.  "Devil  out  of  hell!  We  won! 
We  crushed  him  to  death !  Fiend !"  The  door 
slammed  behind  her.  Mr.  Casey  suddenly 
bowed  his  head  on  his  hands  with  a  sob  of 
pain.  "Poor  Parnell!"  he  cried  loudly.  "My 
dead  King."  Naturally  the  dinner  was  not  a 
success.  Stephen  noted  that  there  were  tears  in 
his  father's  eyes  at  the  mention  of  Parnell,  but 
that  he  seemed  debonair  enough  when  the  old 
woman  unpacked  her  heart  of  vile  words  like  a 
drab. 

There  is  no  denying  that  the  novel  is  as  a 
whole  hardly  cheerful.  Its  grip  on  life,  its 
intensity,  its  evident  truth,  and  unflinching 
acceptance  of  facts  will  make  A  Portrait  dis 
agreeable  to  the  average  reader.  There  is  relief 
in  the  Trinity  College  episodes;  humour  of  a 
saturnine  kind  in  the  artistic  armoury  of  Mr. 
Joyce.  There  is  no  ironist  like  an  Irishman. 
The  book  is  undoubtedly  written  from  a  full 
heart,  but  the  author  must  have  sighed  with 
relief  when  he  wrote  the  last  line.  No  one 
may  tell  the  truth  with  impunity,  and  the 
192 


JAMES  JOYCE 

portrait  of  Stephen  in  its  objective  frigidity  — 
as  an  artistic  performance  —  and  its  passionate 
personal  note,  is  bound  to  give  offence  in  every 
quarter.  It  is  too  Irish  to  be  liked  by  the  Irish; 
not  an  infrequent  paradox.  The  volume  of 
tales  entitled  Dubliners  reveals  a  wider  range, 
a  practised  technical  hand,  and  a  gift  for  etch 
ing  character  that  may  be  compared  with  De 
Maupassant's.  A  big  comparison,  but  read 
such  masterpieces  in  pity  and  irony  as  The 
Dead,  A  Painful  Case,  The  Boarding-House  or 
Two  Gallants,  and  be  convinced  that  we  do 
not  exaggerate. 

Dublin,  we  have  said  elsewhere,  is  a  huge 
whispering  gallery.  Scandal  of  the  most  in 
significant  order  never  lacks  multiple  echoes. 
From  Merrion  Square,  from  the  Shelbourne,  to 
Dalkey  or  Drumcondra;  from  the  Monument  to 
Chapelizod,  the  repercussion  of  spoken  gossip  is 
unfailing.  The  book  Dubliners  is  filled  with 
Dublinesque  anecdotes.  It  is  charged  with 
the  sights  and  scents  and  gestures  of  the  town. 
The  slackers  who  pester  servant-girls  for  their 
shillings  to  spend  on  whisky;  the  young  man 
in  the  boarding-house  who  succumbs  to  the 
11  plan  ted'7  charms  of  the  landlady's  daughter 
to  fall  into  the  matrimonial  trap  —  only  De 
Maupassant  could  better  the  telling  of  this 
too  commonplace  story;  the  middle-aged  man, 
parsimonious  as  to  his  emotions  and  the  tragic 
ending  of  a  love-affair  that  had  hardly  begun; 
and  the  wonderfully  etched  plate  called  The 
193 


JAMES  JOYCE 

Dead  with  its  hundred  fine  touches  of  comedy 
and  satire  —  these  but  prove  the  claim  of 
James  Joyce's  admirers  that  he  is  a  writer 
signally  gifted.  A  malevolent  fairy  seemingly 
made  him  a  misanthrope.  With  Spinoza  he 
could  say  —  oh,  terrifying  irony !  —  that  "man 
kind  is  not  necessary"  in  the  eternal  scheme. 
We  hope  that  with  the  years  he  may  become 
mellower,  but  that  he  will  never  lose  the  ap 
preciation  of  "  life's  more  bitter  flavours."  In 
sipid  novelists  are  legion.  He  is  Huysmans's 
little  brother  in  his  flair  for  disintegrating  char 
acter.  But  yet  an  Irishman,  who  sees  the 
shining  vision  in  the  sky,  a  vision  that  too 
often  vanishes  before  he  can  pin  its  beauty 
on  canvas.  But  yet  an  Irishman  in  his  sense  of 
the  murderous  humour  of  such  a  story  as  Ivy 
Day  in  the  Committee-Room,  which  would 
bring  to  a  Tammany  heeler  what  Henry  James 
called  "the  emotion  of  recognition."  Ah!  the 
wild  goose.  The  flying  dream. 


194 


CHAPTER  XVII 
CREATIVE  INVOLUTION 

ISRAEL  ZANGWILL,  in  the  papers  he  contri 
buted  once  upon  a  time  to  the  Strand  Magazine 
and  later  reunited  in  a  book  bearing  the  happy 
title  Without  Prejudice,  spoke  of  women  writers 
as  being  significant  chiefly  in  their  self-revela 
tion.  What  they  tell  of  themselves  is  of  more 
value  than  what  they  write  about.  Whether 
Mr.  Zangwill  now  believes  this  matters  little 
in  the  discussion  of  an  unusual  book  by  a  woman. 
Perhaps  to-day  he  would  open  both  eyes  widely 
after  reading  Creative  Involution,  by  Cora  L. 
Williams,  M.S.,  with  an  apposite  introduction 
by  Edwin  Markham.  Miss  Williams  deals 
with  no  less  a  bagatelle  than  the  Fourth  Di 
mension  of  Space  (what  we  do  not  know  we 
fear,  and  fear  is  always  capitalised).  Specula 
tive  as  is  her  work,  she  is  not  a  New-Thoughter, 
a  Christian  Scientist,  or  a  member  of  any  of 
the  other  queer  rag- tag  and  bobtail  beliefs  and 
superstitions  —  for  tune- telling,  astrology,  selling 
"futures"  in  the  next  life,  table-rapping,  and 
such  like.  Cora  Lenore  Williams  is  an  author 
ity  in  mathematics,  as  was  the  brilliant,  un 
happy  Sonya  Kovalevska.  Her  ideas,  then, 
are  not  verbal  wind-pudding,  but  have  a  basis 


CREATIVE  INVOLUTION 

of  mathematics  and  the  investigations  of  the 
laboratory,  where  "chemists  and  physicists  are 
finding  that  the  conduct  of  certain  molecules 
and  crystals  is  best  explained  as  a  fourth- 
dimensional  activity." 

We  have  always  enjoyed  the  idea  of  the 
Fourth  Spatial  Dimension.  The  fact  that  it 
is  an  x  in  the  plotting  of  mathematicians  in 
general  does  not  hinder  it  from  being  a  fascinat 
ing  theme.  J.  K.  F.  Zoellner,  of  Leipsic,  proved 
to  his  own  satisfaction  the  existence  of  a  Fourth 
Dimension  when  he  turned  an  india-rubber 
ball  inside  out  without  tearing  it.  Later  he 
became  a  victim  to  incurable  melancholy. 
No  wonder.  If  you  have  read  Cayley,  or  Ab 
bot's  Flatland,  or  the  ingenious  speculations 
of  Simon  Newcomb  and  W.  K.  Clifford,  you 
will  learn  the  attractions  of  the  subject.  Per 
petual  motion,  squaring  the  circle,  are  only 
variants  of  the  alchemical  pursuit  of  the  phi 
losopher's  stone,  the  transmutation  of  the  baser 
metals,  the  cabalistic  Abracadabra,  the  quest 
of  the  absolute.  Man  can't  live  on  machinery 
alone,  and  the  underfed  soul  of  the  past  period 
of  positivism  craves  more  spiritual  nourishment 
to-day.  Hasn't  the  remarkable  mathematician 
Henri  Poincare  (author  of  Science  and  Hypo 
thesis,  The  Value  of  Science,  Science  and 
Method)  declared  that  between  the  construc 
tion  of  the  spirit  and  the  absolute  of  truth  there 
is  an  abysm  caused  by  free  choice  and  the 
voluntary  elimination  which  have  necessitated 
196 


CREATIVE  INVOLUTION 

such  inferences?  Note  the  word  "free";  free 
will  is  restored  to  its  old  and  honourable  estate 
in  the  hierarchy  of  thought.  The  cast-iron 
determinism  of  the  seventies  and  eighties  has 
gone  to  join  the  materialistic  ideas  of  Buchner 
and  Clifford.  It  is  a  pluralistic  world  now,  and 
lordly  Intuition  —  a  dangerous  vocable  —  rules 
over  mere  mental  processes.  (There  is,  as  George 
Henry  Lewes  asserted,  profound  truth  in  the 
Cullen  paradox:  i.  e.,  there  are  more  false  facts 
than  false  theories  current.)  Science  only  at 
tains  the  knowledge  of  the  correspondence  and 
relativity  of  things  —  no  mean  intellectual 
feat,  by  the  way  —  but  not  of  the  things  them 
selves;  one  must  join,  adds  Poincare,  to  the 
faculty  of  reasoning  the  gift  of  direct  sym 
pathy.  In  a  word,  Intuition.  Even  mathe 
matics  as  an  exact  science  is  not  immutable, 
and  the  geometries  of  Lebatchevsky  and  Rie- 
mann  are  as  legitimate  as  Euclid's.  And  at 
this  point  the  earth  beneath  us  begins  to  tremble 
and  the  stars  to  totter  in  their  spheres.  Is  the 
age  of  miracles  now? 

Perhaps  music  is  in  the  Fourth  Dimension. 
Time  may  be  in  two  dimensions.  Heraclitus 
before  Bergson  compared  Time  to  a  river  always 
flowing,  yet  a  permanent  river:  if  we  emerged 
from  this  stream  at  a  certain  moment  and  entered 
it  an  hour  later,  would  it  not  signify  that  Time 
has  two  dimensions.  And  where  does  music 
stand  in  the  eternal  scheme  of  things  ?  Are  not 
harmony  with  its  vertical  structure  and  melody 
197 


CREATIVE  INVOLUTION 

with  its  horizontal  flow  proof  that  music  is  an 
other  dimension  in  Time  ?  Miss  Williams's  no 
tion  of  the  Fourth  Spatial  Dimension  is  a  spirit 
ual  one.  Creative  Involution  is  to  supersede  the 
Darwinian  evolution.  Again,  the  interior  revo 
lution  described  for  our  salvation  in  the  epistles 
of  the  Apostle  Paul.  All  roads  lead  to  religion. 
Expel  religion  forcibly  and  it  returns  under 
strange  disguises,  usually  as  debasing  super 
stitions.  Yet  religion  without  dogma  is  like 
a  body  without  a  skeleton  —  it  can't  be  made 
to  stand  upright. 

Mathematicians  are  poets,  and  religion  is 
the  poetry  of  the  poor,  just  as  philosophy  is 
the  diversion  of  professors.  Modern  science, 
said  Mallock,  put  out  the  footlights  of  life's 
stage  when  it  denied  religion.  But  matter,  in 
the  light  of  recent  experiment,  is  become  spirit, 
energy,  anything  but  gross  matter.  Tyndall 
might  have  to  revise  the  conclusions  of  his 
once  famous  Belfast  address  in  the  presence  of 
radium.  Remy  de  Gourmont  said  that  the 
essential  thing  is  to  search  the  eternal  in  the 
diverse  and  fleeting  movements  of  form.  From 
a  macrocosmic  monster  our  gods  are  become 
microcosmic;  god  may  be  a  molecule,  a  cell. 
A  god  to  put  in  a  phial;  thus  far  has  the  zigzag 
caprice  of  theory  attained.  And  religion  is 
"a  sum  of  scruples  which  impede  the  free  exer 
cise  of  our  faculties,"  says  Salomon  Reinach 
in  Orpheus.  Bossuet  did  not  write  his  Varia 
tions  in  vain.  All  is  vanity,  even  doctrinal 


CREATIVE  INVOLUTION 

fluctuations.  Goethe  has  warned  us  that  "Man 
is  not  born  to  solve  the  mystery  of  Existence; 
but  he  must  nevertheless  attempt  it,  in  order 
that  he  may  learn  how  to  keep  within  the  limits 
of  the  Knowable."  Goethe  detested  all  "  think 
ing  about  thought."  Spinoza  was  his  only  phil 
osophical  recreation. 

Man  must  no  longer  be  egocentric.  The 
collective  soul  is  born.  The  psychology  of  the 
mob,  according  to  Professor  Le  Bon,  is  dif 
ferent  from  the  psychology  of  the  individual. 
We  know  this  from  the  mental  workings  of  a 
jury.  Twelve  otherwise  intelligent  men  put 
in  a  jury-box  contaminate  each  other's  will 
so  that  their  united  judgment  is,  as  a  rule,  that 
of  a  full-fledged  imbecile.  Mark  Twain  noted 
this  in  his  accustomed  humorous  (a  mordant 
humour)  fashion,  adding  that  trial  by  jury  was 
all  very  well  in  the  time  of  Alfred  the  Great, 
candle-clocks,  and  small  communities.  Miss 
Williams,  who  sees  salvation  for  the  single 
soul  in  the  collective  soul  —  not  necessarily  so 
cialistic  —  nevertheless  warns  parents  against 
the  dangers  in  our  public-school  system,  where 
the  individuality  of  the  child  is  so  often  dis 
turbed,  if  not  destroyed,  by  class  teaching. 
Mob  psychology  is  always  false  psychology. 
The  crowd  obliterates  the  ego.  Yet  to  collec 
tive  consciousness  may  belong  the  future.  It  is 
all  very  well  for  Mallock  to  call  war  the  glorifica 
tion,  the  result,  and  the  prop  of  limited  class 
interests.  (This  was  years  ago.)  Stately, 
199 


CREATIVE  INVOLUTION 

sedate,  stable  is  the  class  that  won't  tolerate 
war;  a  class  of  moral  lollipops.  War  we  must 
have;  it  is  one  of  the  prime  conditions  of  strug 
gling  existence.  As  belief  in  some  totem,  fetich, 
taboo  is  the  basis  of  all  superstitions,  so  the 
superstition  of  yesterday  builds  the  cathedrals 
of  faith  to-day.  (Read  Frazer's  Golden  Bough 
—  James  Frazer,  who  is  the  Darwin  of  Social 
Anthropology.)  Happiness  requires  limitations, 
as  a  wine  needs  a  glass  to  hold  it;  and  if  pa 
triotism  is  a  crime  of  lese-majesty  against  man 
kind,  then  be  it  so.  But  like  the  poor,  war 
and  patriotism  are  precious  essences  in  the 
scheme  of  life,  and  we  shall  always  have  them 
with  us.  However,  the  warning  of  Miss  Wil 
liams  is  a  timely  one.  At  school  our  children's 
souls  are  clogged  with  bricks  and  mortar,  in 
stead  of  being  buoyant  and  individual. 

She  quotes — -and  her  little  volume  contains 
a  mosaic  of  apt  quotations — with  evident  ap 
probation  from  Some  Neglected  Factors  in 
Evolution,  by  the  late  H.  M.  Bernard,  an  Eng 
lish  thinker:  " Organic  life  is  thus  seen  ad 
vancing  out  of  the  dim  past  upon  a  series  of 
waves,  each  of  which  can  be  scanned  in  detail 
until  we  come  to  that  one  on  which  we  our 
selves,  the  organisms  of  to-day,  and  the  human 
societies  to  which  we  belong,  are  swept  on 
ward.  Here  we  must  necessarily  pause,  but 
can  we  doubt  that  the  great  organic  rhythm 
which  has  brought  life  so  far  will  carry  it  on 
to  still  greater  heights  in  the  unknown  future?" 
200 


CREATIVE  INVOLUTION 

Rhythm,  measured  flow,  is  the  shibboleth. 
Zarathustra  tells  us  that  man  is  a  discord  and 
hybrid  of  plant  and  ghost.  "I  teach  you  Be- 
yond-Man  (superman);  Man  is  something  that 
will  be  surpassed  .  .  .  once  man  was  ape,  and 
is  ape  in  a  higher  degree  than  any  ape.  .  .  . 
Man  is  a  rope  connecting  animal  and  Beyond- 
Man."  "  Believe  that  which  thou  seest  not," 
cries  Flaubert  in  his  marvellous  masque  of 
mythologies  ancient  and  modern,  The  Temp 
tation  of  St.  Anthony.  Tertullian  said  the  same 
centuries  before  the  Frenchman:  Believe  what 
is  impossible.  We  all  do.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
price  we  pay  for  cognition. 

Miss  Williams  is  not  a  Bergsonian,  though 
she  appreciates  his  plastic  theories.  She  has 
a  receptive  mind.  Henri  Bergson  is  a  mysta- 
gogue,  and  all  mystagogues  are  mythomaniacs. 
He  has  yet  to  answer  Professor  Hugh  S.  R. 
Elliott's  three  questions:  "i.  Bergson  says, 
'Time  is  a  stuff  both  resistant  and  substantial/ 
Where  is  the  specimen  on  which  this  allegation 
is  founded?  2.  Consciousness  is  to  some  extent 
independent  of  cerebral  structure.  Professor 
Bergson  thinks  he  is  disproving  a  crude  theory 
of  localisation  of  mental  qualities.  Will  he 
furnish  evidence  of  its  existence  apart  from 
local  structure?  3.  Instinct  leads  us  to  a  com 
prehension  of  life  that  intellect  can  never  give. 
Will  Professor  Bergson  furnish  instances  of 
the  successes  of  instinct  in  biological  inquiries 
where  intellect  has  failed?"  (From  Modern 
201 


CREATIVE  INVOLUTION 

Science  and  the  Illusions  of  Professor  Berg- 
son,  1912.)  These  " metaphysical  curiosities," 
as  they  are  rather  contemptuously  called  by 
Sir  Ray  Lankester  in  his  preface  to  this  solidly 
reasoned  confutation,  are  the  pabulum  of 
numerous  persons,  dilettantes,  with  a  craving 
for  an  embellished  theory  of  the  Grand  Per 
haps.  Miss  Williams  is  not  the  dupe  of  such 
silken  sophistries,  and  while  her  divagations 
are  sometimes  in  the  air  —  which,  like  the  earth, 
hath  bubbles,  as  was  observed  by  the  greatest 
of  poets — she  plants  her  feet  on  tangible  af 
firmations.  And  to  have  faith  we  must  admit 
the  Illative  sense  of  John  Henry  Newman. 
Thus  "the  wheel  is  come  full  circle."  Creative 
Involution  will  please  mystics  and  mathe 
maticians  alike.  The  author  somersaults  in 
the  vasty  blue,  but  safely  volplanes  to  mother 
earth. 


202 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

HAMLET,  sometime  Prince  of  Denmark, 
warned  his  friend  that  there  were  more  things 
in  heaven  and  earth  than  dreamed  of  in  his 
philosophy.  Now,  both  Hamlet  and  Horatio 
had  absorbed  the  contemporary  wisdom  of 
Wittenberg.  And  let  it  be  said  in  passing 
that  their  knowledge  did  not  lag  behind  ours, 
metaphysically  speaking.  Nevertheless,  Ham 
let,  if  he  had  lived  longer,  might  have  said 
that  no  philosophy  would  ever  solve  the 
riddle  o£  the  sphinx;  that  we  never  know,  only 
name,  things.  Noah  is  the  supreme  symbol 
of  science,  he  the  first  namer  of  the  animals 
in  the  ark.  The  world  of  sensation  is  our  ark 
and  we  are  one  branch  of  the  animal  family. 
We  come  whence  we  know  not  and  go  where 
we  shall  never  guess.  Standing  on  this  tiny 
Isle  of  Error  we  call  the  present,  we  think  back 
ward  and  live  forward.  Hamlet  the  sceptical 
would  now  demand  something  more  tangible 
than  the  Grand  Perhaps.  My  kingdom  for  a 
fulcrum !  he  might  cry  to  Horatio — on  which 
I  may  rest  my  lever  and  pry  this  too  too  solid 
earth  up  to  the  starry  skies!  What  the  im 
plement?  Religion?  Remember  Hamlet  was 
203 


FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

a  Catholic,  too  sensitive  to  send  unshrived  to 
hell's  fire  the  soul  of  his  uncle.  Philosophy? 
Read  Jules  Laforgue's  Hamlet  and  realise  that 
if  he  were  alive  to-day  the  melancholy  Prince 
might  be  a  delicate  scoffer  at  all  fables.  A 
Hamlet  who  had  read  Schopenhauer.  What 
then  the  escape?  We  all  need  more  elbow- 
room  in  the  infinite.  The  answer  is — the  Fourth 
Dimension  in  Higher  Space.  Eureka ! 

After  studying  Saint  Teresa,  John  of  the  Cross, 
Saint  Ignatius,  or  the  selections  in  Vaughan's 
Hours  with  the  Mystics,  even  the  doubting 
Thomas  is  forced  to  admit  that  here  is  no  trace 
of  rambling  discourse,  fugitive  ideation,  half- 
stammered  enigmas;  on  the  contrary,  the  true 
mystic  abhors  the  cloudy,  and  his  vision  pierces 
with  crystalline  clearness  the  veil  of  the  visible 
world.  As  literary  style  we  find  sharp  con 
tours  and  affirmations.  Mysticism  is  not  all 
cobweb  lace  and  opal  fire.  Remember  that  we 
are  not  stressing  the  validity  of  either  the  vision 
or  its  consequent  judgments;  we  only  wish  to 
emphasise  the  absence  of  muddy  thinking  in 
these  writings.  This  quality  of  precision, 
allied  to  an  eloquent,  persuasive  style,  we  en 
counter  in  Claude  Bragdon's  Four  Dimen 
sional  Vistas.  The  author  is  an  architect  and 
has  written  much  of  his  art  and  of  projective 
ornament.  (He  was  a  Scammon  lecturer  at 
the  Chicago  Art  Institute  in  1915.)  He  is  a 
mystic.  He  is  also  eminently  practical.  His 
contribution  to  aesthetics  in  The  Beautiful 
204 


FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

Necessity  is  suggestive,  and  on  the  purely 
technical  side  valuable.  But  Mr.  Bragdon, 
being  both  a  mathematician  and  a  poet,  does 
not  stop  at  three-dimensional  existence.  Like 
the  profound  English  mystic  William  Blake, 
he  could  ask:  "How  do  you  know  but  every 
bird  that  cuts  the  airy  way  is  an  immense 
world  of  delight,  closed  by  your  senses  five?" 
What  is  the  Fourth  Dimension?  A  subtle 
transposition  of  precious  essences  from  the 
earthly  to  the  spiritual  plane.  We  live  in 
a  world  of  three  dimensions,  the  symbols  of 
which  are  length,  breadth,  thickness.  A  spe 
cies  of  triangular  world,  a  prison  for  certain 
souls  who  see  in  the  category  of  Time  an  es 
cape  from  that  other  imperative,  Space  (how 
ever,  not  the  Categorical  Imperative  of  Kant 
and  its  acid  moral  convention).  Helmholtz 
and  many  mathematicians  employed  the  "n" 
dimension  as  a  working  hypothesis.  It  is  use 
ful  in  some  analytical  problems,  but  it  is  not 
apprehended  by  the  grosser  senses.  Pascal, 
great  thinker  and  mathematician,  had  his 
"Abyss";  it  was  his  Fourth  Dimension,  and 
he  never  walked  abroad  without  the  conscious 
ness  of  it  at  his  side.  This  illusion  or  obsession 
was  the  result  of  a  severe  mental  shock  early 
in  his  life.  Many  of  us  are  like  the  French 
philosopher.  We  have  our  "abyss,"  mystic 
or  real.  Mr.  Bragdon  quotes  from  the  mathe 
matician  Bolyai,  who  in  1823  "declared  with 
regard  to  Euclid's  so-called  axiom  of  parallels, 
205 


FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

'I  will  draw  two  lines  through  a  given  point 
both  of  which  will  be  parallel  to  a  given  line.'  " 
Space,  then,  may  be  curved  in  another  dimen 
sion.  Mr.  Bragdon  believes  that  it  is,  though 
he  does  not  attempt  to  prove  it,  as  that  would 
be  impossible;  but  he  gives  his  readers  the 
chief  points  in  the  hypothesis.  The  "n"  di 
mension  may  be  employed  as  a  lever  to  the 
imagination.  Even  revealed  religion  demands 
our  faith,  and  imagination  is  the  prime  agent 
in  the  interpretation  of  the  universe,  accord 
ing  to  the  gospel  of  mystic  mathematics. 

Nature  geometrises,  said  Emerson,  and  it  is 
interesting  to  note  the  imagery  of  transcen 
dentalism  through  the  ages.  It  is  invariably 
geometrical.  Spheres,  planes,  cones,  circles, 
spirals,  tetragrams,  pentagrams,  ellipses,  and 
what-not.  A  cubistic  universe.  Xenophanes 
said  that  God  is  a  sphere.  And  then  there 
are  the  geometrical  patterns  made  by  birds  on 
the  wing.  Heaven  in  any  religion  is  another 
sphere.  Swedenborg  offers  a  series  of  planes, 
many  mansions  for  the  soul  at  its  various  stages 
of  existence.  The  Bible,  the  mystical  teach 
ings  of  Mother  Church  —  why  evoke  familiar 
witnesses?  We  are  hemmed  in  by  riddles, 
and  the  magnificent  and  mysterious  tumult 
of  life  asks  for  the  eye  of  imagination,  which 
is  also  the  eye  of  faith.  The  cold  fire  and  dark 
light  of  the  mystics  must  not  repel  us  by  their 
strangeness.  Not  knowledge  but  perception 
is  power,  and  the  psychic  is  the  sign-post  of 
206 


FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

the  future.  What  do  all  these  words  mean: 
matter,  energy,  spirit,  cells,  molecules,  electrons, 
but  the  same  old  thing?  I  am  a  colony  of  cells, 
yet  that  fact  does  not  get  me  closer  to  the  core 
of  the  soul.  What  will?  A  fourth  spatial 
dimension,  answers  Claude  Bragdon.  Truly  a 
poetic  concept. 

He  calls  man  a  space-eater.  Human  ambi 
tion  is  to  annihilate  space.  Wars  are  fought 
for  space,  and  every  step  in  knowledge  is  based 
upon  its  mastery.  What  miracles  are  wireless 
telegraphy,  flying-machines,  the  Roentgen  ray! 
Astronomy  —  what  ghastly  gulfs  it  shows  us 
in  space !  Time  and  space  were  abolished  as 
sense  illusions  by  the  worthy  Bishop  of  Cloyne, 
George  Berkeley;  but  as  we  are  up  to  our  eyes 
in  quotidian  life,  which  grows  over  and  about 
us  like  grass,  we  cannot  shake  off  the  oppres 
sion.  First  thought,  and  then  realised,  these 
marvels  are  now  accepted  as  matter  of  fact 
because  mankind  has  been  told  the  technique 
of  them;  as  if  any  explanation  can  be  more 
than  nominal.  We  shall  never  know  the  real 
nature  of  the  phenomena  that  crowd  in  on  us 
from  lust  to  dust.  Not  even  that  synthesis 
of  the  five  senses,  the  sixth,  or  sex  sense,  with 
its  evanescent  ecstasy,  cuts  deeply  into  the 
darkness.  There  may  be  a  seventh  sense,  a 
new  dimension,  intimations  of  which  are  setting 
advanced  thinkers  on  fresh  trails.  But  there 
is  as  yet  no  tangible  proof.  Philosophers,  who, 
like  some  singers,  bray  their  brainless  convic- 
207 


FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

tions  to  a  gaping  auditory,  ask  of  us  much  more 
credence,  and  little  or  no  imagination.  As 
that  "old  mole,"  working  in  the  ground,  gravi 
tation,  is  defied  by  aeroplanes,  then  we  should 
not  despair  of  any  hypothesis  which  permits 
us  a  peep  through  the  partly  opened  door. 
Plato's  cavern  and  the  shadows.  Who  knows 
but  in  this  universe  there  may  be  a  crevice 
through  which  filters  the  light  of  another  life? 
Emerson,  who  shed  systems  yet  never  or 
ganised  one,  hints  at  aerial  perspectives.  A 
flight  through  the  sky  with  the  sun  bathing 
in  the  blue  jolts  one's  conception  of  a  rigid 
finite  world.  In  such  perilous  altitudes  I  have 
enjoyed  this  experience  and  felt  a  liberation 
of  the  spirit  which  has  no  parallel;  not  even 
when  listening  to  Bach  or  Beethoven  or  Chopin. 
Music,  indeed,  is  the  nearest  approach  to 
psychic  freedom. 

Mr.  Bragdon  approvingly  quotes  Goethe's 
expression  "frozen  music,"  applied  to  Gothic 
architecture.  (Stendhal  appropriated  this 
phrase.)  For  us  the  flying  buttress  is  aspiring, 
and  the  pointed  arch  is  a  fugue.  Our  author 
is  rich  in  his  analogies,  and  like  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  sees  "quincunxes"  in  everything;  his 
particular  "quincunx"  being  Higher  Space. 
The  precise  patterns  in  our  brain,  like  those 
of  the  ant,  bee,  and  beaver,  which  enable  us 
to  perceive  and  build  the  universe  (otherwise 
called  innate  ideas)  are  geometrical.  Space 
is  the  first  and  final  illusion.  Time  —  which 
208 


FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

is  not  "a  stuff  both  resistant  and  substantial," 
as  Henri  Bergson  declares  —  is  perhaps  the 
Fourth  Dimension  in  the  guise  of  a  sequence 
of  states,  and  not  grasped  simultaneously,  as 
is  the  idea  of  Space.  That  Time  can  shrink 
and  expand,  opium-eaters,  who  are  not  always 
totally  drugged  by  their  dreams,  assure  us.  A 
second  becomes  an  aeon.  And  space  curvature  ? 
Is  it  any  wonder  that  "  Lewis  Carroll,"  who 
wrote  those  extraordinary  parables  for  little 
folk,  Through  the  Looking- Glass  and  Alice 
in  Wonderland,  was  a  mathematician?  A 
topsy-turvy  world;  it  is  even  upside  down  as 
an  optical  image.  The  other  side  of  good  and 
evil  may  be  around  the  corner.  Eternity  can 
lurk  in  a  molecule  too  tiny  to  harbour  Queen 
Mab.  And  we  may  all  live  to  see  the  back  of 
our  own  heads  without  peering  in  mirrors. 
That  " astral  trunk"  once  so  fervently  believed 
in  may  prove  a  reality;  it  is  situated  behind 
the  ear  and  is  a  long  tube  that  ascends  to  the 
planet  Saturn,  and  by  its  aid  we  should  be  en 
abled  to  converse  with  spirits!  The  pineal 
gland  is  the  seat  of  the  soul,  and  miracles  fence 
us  in  at  every  step.  We  fill  our  belly  with 
the  east  wind  of  vain  desires.  We  eat  the  air 
promise-crammed.  This  world  is  but  a  point 
in  the  universe,  and  our  universe  only  one  of 
an  infinite  series.  There  was  no  beginning, 
there  is  no  end.  Eternity  is  now;  though 
death  and  the  tax-gatherer  never  cease  their 
importunings. 

209 


FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

All  this  Mr.  Bragdon  does  not  say,  though 
he  leans  heavily  on  the  arcana  of  the  ancient 
wisdom.  The  truth  is  that  the  majority  of 
humans  are  mentally  considered  vegetables,  liv 
ing  in  two  dimensions.  To  keep  us  respon 
sive  to  spiritual  issues,  as  people  were  awaked 
in  Swift's  Laputa  by  flappers,  is  the  service 
performed  by  such  transcendentalists  as  C. 
Howard  Hinton,  author  of  The  Fourth  Dimen 
sion;  Claude  Bragdon  and  Cora  Lenore  Wil 
liams.  Their  thought  is  not  new;  it  was  hoary 
with  age  when  the  Greeks  went  to  old  Egypt 
for  fresh  learning;  Noah  conversed  with  his 
wives  in  the  same  terminology.  But  its  ap 
plication  is  novel,  as  are  the  personal  nuances. 
The  idea  of  a  fourth  spatial  dimension  may 
be  likened  to  a  fresh  lens  in  the  telescope  or 
microscope  of  speculation.  For  the  present 
writer  the  hypothesis  is  just  one  more  incur 
sion  into  the  fairyland  of  metaphysics.  With 
out  fairies  the  heart  grows  old  and  dusty. 

The  seven  arts  are  fairy-tales  in  fascinating 
shapes.  As  for  the  paradise  problem,  it  is 
horribly  sublime  for  me,  this  idea  of  an  eternity 
to  be  spent  in  a  place  which,  with  its  silver, 
gold,  plush,  and  diamonds,  seems  like  the 
dream  of  a  retired  pawnbroker.  The  Eternal 
Recurrence  is  more  consoling.  The  only  ex 
cuse  for  life  is  its  brevity.  Why,  then,  do  we 
yearn  for  that  unending  corridor  through  which 
in  processional  rhythms  we  move,  our  shoulders 
bowed  by  the  burden  of  our  chimera  —  our 
210 


FOUR  DIMENSIONAL  VISTAS 

ego?  I  confess  that  I  prefer  to  watch  on  the 
edge  of  some  vast  promontory  the  swift  ap 
proach  of  a  dark  sun  rushing  out  from  the 
primordial  depths  of  interstellar  spaces  to  the 
celestial  assignation  made  at  the  beginning  of 
Time  for  our  little  solar  system,  whose  pro 
vinciality,  remote  from  the  populous  path  of 
the  Milky  Way,  has  hitherto  escaped  colliding 
with  a  segment  of  the  infinite.  Perhaps  in  that 
apocalyptic  flare-up  —  surely  a  more  cosmical 
and  heroic  death  than  stewing  in  greasy  bliss  — 
Higher  Space  may  be  manifested  and  Time 
and  Tri-Dimensional  Space  be  no  more.  The 
rest  is  silence. 


211 


CHAPTER  XIX 
O.  W. 

IT  is  an  enormous  advertisement  nowadays 
to  win  a  reputation  as  a  martyr  —  whether  to 
an  idea,  a  vice,  or  a  scolding  wife.  You  have 
a  label  by  which  a  careless  public  is  able  to 
identify  you.  Oscar  Wilde  was  a  born  ad 
vertiser.  From  the  sunflower  days  to  Hollo- 
way  Gaol,  and  from  the  gaol  to  the  Virgins  of 
Dieppe,  he  kept  himself  in  the  public  eye. 
Since  his  death  the  number  of  volumes  dealing 
with  his  glittering  personality,  negligible  verse 
and  more  or  less  insincere  prose,  have  been 
steadily  accumulating;  why,  I'm  at  a  loss  to 
understand.  If  he  was  a  victim  to  British 
"middle-class  morality,"  then  have  done  with 
it,  while  regretting  the  affair.  If  he  was  not, 
all  the  more  reason  to  maintain  silence.  But 
no,  the  clamour  increases,  with  the  result  that 
there  are  many  young  people  who  believe  that 
Oscar  was  a  great  man,  a  great  writer,  when  in 
reality  he  was  neither.  Here  is  Alfred  Douglas 
slamming  the  memory  of  his  old  chum  in  a  not 
particularly  edifying  manner,  though  he  tells 
some  truths,  wholesome  and  unwholesome. 
Henley  paid  an  unpleasant  tribute  to  his  dead 
friend,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  but  the  note 
212 


o.  w. 

of  hatred  was  absent;  evidently  literary  de 
preciation  was  the  object.  However,  there  are 
many  to  whom  the  truth  will  be  more  wel 
come  than  the  spectacle  of  broken  friendship. 
Another,  and  far  more  welcome  book,  is 
that  written  by  Martin  Birnbaum,  a  slender 
volume  of  "fragments  and  memories."  His 
Oscar  Wilde  is  the  Oscar  of  the  first  visit  to 
New  York,  and  there  are  lots  of  anecdotes  and 
facts  that  are  sure  to  please  collectors  of  Wil- 
diana  —  or  Oscariana  —  which  is  it  ?  Pictures, 
too.  I  confess  that  his  early  portraits  flatter 
the  Irish  writer.  "He  looked  like  an  old  maid 
in  a  boarding-house"  said  a  well-known  Phila 
delphia  portrait-painter.  He  was  ugly,  not  a 
"beautiful  Greek  god,"  as  his  fervent  admirers 
think.  His  mouth  was  loose,  ill-shaped,  his 
eyes  dull  and  "draggy,"  his  forehead  narrow, 
the  cheeks  flabby,  his  teeth  protruding  and 
"horsy,"  his  head  and  face  was  pear-shaped. 
He  was  a  big  fellow,  as  was  his  brother  Willie 
Wilde,  who  once  lived  in  New  York,  but  he  gave 
no  impression  of  muscular  strength  or  man 
liness;  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  not  a  "Sissy," 
as  so  many  have  said.  Indeed,  to  know  him 
was  to  like  him;  he  was  the  "real  stuff,"  as 
the  slang  goes,  and  if  he  had  only  kept  away 
from  a  pestilential  group  of  flatterers  and 
spongers,  his  end  might  have  been  different. 

I've  heard  many  eloquent  talkers  in  my  time, 
best   of  them  all  was  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,   of 
Paris,  after  whom  Oscar  palpably  modelled  — 
213 


0.  W. 

lace  cuffs,  clouded  cane,  and  other  minor  affec 
tations.  But  when  Oscar  was  in  the  vein, 
which  was  usually  once  every  twenty-four 
hours,  he  was  inimitable.  Edgar  Saltus  will 
bear  me  out  in  this.  For  copiousness,  sustained 
wit,  and  verbal  brilliancy  the  man  had  few 
equals.  It  was  amazing,  his  conversation.  I 
met  him  when  he  came  here,  and  once  again 
much  later.  Possibly  that  is  why  I  care  so 
little  for  his  verse,  a  pasticcio  of  Swinburne 

—  (in  the  wholly  admirable  biography  of  this 
poet  by  Mr.   Gosse,  reference  is  made  to  O. 
W.    by    the   irascible    hermit    of   Putney:    "I 
thought  he  seemed  a  harmless  young  nobody. 
...     I  should  think  you  in  America  must  be 
as  tired  of  his  name  as  we  are  in  London  of 
Mr.    Barnum's    and    his   Jumbos") — Milton, 
Tennyson,  or  for  his  prose,  a  dilution  of  Walter 
Pater  and  Flaubert.     His  Dorian  Grey,  apart 
from  the  inversion  element,  is  poor  Huysmans's 

-  just  look  into  that  masterpiece,  A  Re- 
bours;  not  to  mention  Poe's  tale,  The  Oval 
Portrait;  while  Salome  is  Flaubert  in  operetta 
form  —  his  gorgeous  Herodias  watered  down 
for  uncritical  public  consumption.  It  is  safe 
to  say  the  piece  —  which  limps  dramatically 

—  would  never  have  been  seriously  considered 
if  not  for  the  Richard  Strauss  musical  setting. 
As  for  the  vaunted  essay  on  Socialism,  I  may 
only  call  attention  to  one  fact,  i.  e.,  it  does  not 
deal  with  socialism  at  all,  but  with  philosophical 
anarchism;    besides,   it  is  not  remarkable  in 

214 


o.  w. 

any  particular.  His  Intentions  is  his  best, 
because  his  most  "spoken"  prose.  The  fairy 
tales  are  graceful  exercises  by  a  versatile  writer, 
with  an  excellent  memory,  but  if  I  had  children 
I'd  give  them  the  Alice  in  Wonderland  books, 
through  which  sweeps  a  bracing  air,  and  not 
the  hothouse  atmosphere  of  Wilde.  The  plays 
are  fascinating  as  fireworks,  and  as  remote 
from  human  interest.  Perhaps  I'm  in  error, 
yet,  after  reading  Pater,  Swinburne,  Rossetti, 
Huysmaris,  I  prefer  them  to  the  Wilde  imita 
tions,  strained  as  they  are  through  his  very  gay 
fancy. 

He  wasn't  an  evil-minded  man;  he  posed 
a  la  Byron  and  Baudelaire;  but  to  hear  his 
jolly  laughter  was  to  rout  any  notion  of  the 
morbid  or  the  sinister.  He  was  materialistic, 
he  loved  good  cookery,  old  wines,  and  strong 
tobacco.  Positively  the  best  book  Wilde  ever 
inspired  was  The  Green  Carnation,  by  Robert 
Hichens,  which  book  gossip  avers  set  the  ball 
rolling  that  fetched  up  behind  prison-bars.  In 
every-day  life  he  was  a  charming,  companion 
able,  and  very  human  chap,  and,  as  Frederick 
James  Gregg  says,  dropped  more  witty  epigrams 
in  an  hour  than  Whistler  did  annually.  The  best 
thing  Whistler  ever  said  to  Wilde  was  his  claim 
ing  in  advance  as  his  own  anything  Oscar  might 
utter;  and  here  Whistler  was  himself  borrow 
ing  an  epigram  of  Baudelaire,  as  he  borrowed 
from  the  same  source  and  amplified  the  idea 
that  nature  is  monotonous,  nature  is  a  plagia- 
215 


0.  W. 

rist  from  art,  and  all  the  rest  of  such  para 
doxical  chatter  and  inconsequent  humour.  Both 
Whistler  and  Wilde  have  been  taken  too  seriously 
—  I  mean  on  this  side.  Whistler  was  a  great 
artist.  Wilde  was  not.  Whistler  discoursed 
wittily,  waspishly,  but  he  wasn't  knee-high  to 
a  grasshopper  when  confronted  with  Wilde. 
As  for  the  tragic  denouement  that  has  been 
thrashed  to  death  by  those  who  know,  suffice 
to  add  that  William  Butler  Yeats  told  me  that 
he  called  at  the  Wilde  home  after  the  scandal 
had  broken,  and  saw  Willie  Wilde,  who  roundly 
denounced  his  brother  for  his  truly  brave  at 
titude —  always  attitudes  with  Oscar.  He 
would  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  London,  and 
perhaps  it  was  the  wisest  act  of  his  life,  though 
neither  the  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol  nor  De 
Profundis  carry  conviction.  Need  I  say  that 
my  judgment  is  personal?  I  have  read  in  cold 
type  that  Pater  was  a  " forerunner7'  of  Wilde; 
that  Wilde  is  a  second  Jesus  Christ  —  which 
latter  statement  stuns  one.  (The  Whitmaniacs 
are  fond  of  claiming  the  same  for  Walt,  who 
is  not  unlike  that  silly  and  sinister  monster 
described  by  Rabelais  as  quite  overshadowing 
the  earth  with  its  gigantic  wings,  and  after 
dropping  vast  quantities  of  mustard-seed  on 
the  embattled  hosts  below  flew  away  yawping: 
"Carnival,  Carnival,  Carnival!")  For  me, 
he  simply  turned  into  superior  "journalism" 
the  ideas  of  Swinburne,  Pater,  Flaubert,  Huys- 
mans,  De  Quincey,  and  others.  If  his  readers 
216 


o.  w. 

would  only  take  the  trouble  to  study  the  orig 
inals  there  might  be  less  talk  of  his  "  original 
ity."  I  say  all  this  without  any  disparagements 
of  his  genuine  gifts;  he  was  a  born  newspaper 
man.  Henry  James  calls  attention  to  the  fact 
that  the  so-called  aesthetic  movement  in  Eng 
land  never  flowered  into  anything  so  artistically 
perfect  as  the  novels  of  Gabriel  d'Annunzio. 
Which  is  true;  but  he  could  have  joined  to 
the  name  of  the  Italian  poet  and  playwright 
that  of  Aubrey  Beardsley,  the  one  " genius" 
of  the  "Eigh teen-Nineties. "  Beardsley  gave 
us  something  distinctly  individual.  Wilde,  a 
veritable  cabotin,  did  not  —  nothing  but  his 
astounding  conversation,  and  that,  alas!  is  a 
fast  fading  memory. 


217 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN 
ARTS 

NOTHING  new  in  all  this  talk  about  a  fusion 
of  the  Seven  Arts;  it  has  been  tried  for  cen 
turies.  Richard  Wagner's  attempt  just  grazed 
success,  though  the  aesthetic  principle  at  the 
base  of  his  theory  is  eminently  unsound.  Pic 
tures,  sculpture,  tone,  acting,  poetry,  and  the 
rest  are  to  be  found  in  the  Wagnerian  music- 
drama;  but  the  very  titles  are  significant  — 
'a  hybrid  art  is  there.  With  Wagner  music  is 
the  master.  His  poetry,  his  drama,  are  not  so 
important,  though  his  scenic  sense  is  unfail 
ing.  Every  one  of  his  works  delights  the  eye; 
truly  moving  pictures.  Yet  if  the  lips  of  the 
young  man  of  Urbino  had  opened  to  music, 
they  would  have  sung  the  melodies  of  the  young 
man  of  Salzburg.  Years  ago  Sadikichi  Hart- 
mann,  the  Japanese  poet  from  Hamburg,  made 
a  bold  attempt  in  this  direction,  adding  to  other 
ingredients  of  the  sensuous  stew,  perfume.  The 
affair  came  off  at  Carnegie  Hall,  and  we  were 
wafted  on  the  wings  of  song  and  smell  to  Japan 
—  only  I  detected  the  familiar  odour  of  old  shoes 
and  the  scent  of  armpits  —  of  the  latter  Walt 
Whitman  has  triumphantly  sung.  A  New  York 
218 


A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

audience  is  not  as  pleasant  to  the  nostrils  as  a 
Japanese  crowd.  That  Mr.  Finck  has  assured  us. 
In  the  Theatre  d'art,  Paris,  and  in  the  last  dec 
ade  of  the  last  century,  experiments  were  made 
with  all  the  arts  —  except  the  art  of  the  palate. 
Recently,  Mary  Hallock,  a  Philadelphia  pianist, 
has  invented  a  mixture  of  music,  lights,  and 
costumes;  for  instance,  in  a  certain  Debussy 
piece,  the  stage  assumes  a  deep  violet  hue, 
which  glides  into  a  light  purple.  The  Turkish 
March  of  Mozart  is  depicted  in  deep  "reds, 
yellows,  and  greens."  Philip  Hale,  the  Boston 
music-critic,  has  written  learnedly  on  the  re 
lation  of  tones  and  colours,  and  that  astonishing 
poet,  Arthur  Rimbaud,  in  his  Alchimie  du 
Verbe,  tells  us:  "I  believe  in  all  the  enchant 
ments.  I  invented  the  colour  of  the  vowels: 
A,  black;  E,  white;  I,  red;  O,  blue;  U,  green." 
This  scheme  he  set  forth  in  his  famous  sonnet, 
Voyelles,  which  was  only  a  mystification  to  catch 
the  ears  of  credulous  ones.  Rene  de  Ghil  in 
vented  an  entirely  new  system  of  prosody,  which 
no  one  understood;  least  of  all,  the  poet.  I  wrote 
a  story,  The  Piper  of  Dreams  (in  Melomaniacs), 
to  prove  that  music  and  the  violet  rays  com 
bined  might  prove  deadly  in  the  hands  of  an 
anarch  composer  like  Illowski  —  or  Richard 
Strauss.  And  now  New  York  has  enjoyed  its 
first  Light  Symphony,  by  Alexander  Scriabine. 
It  was  played  by  the  Russian  Symphony  Or 
chestra  under  the  suave  conductorship  of  Mo 
des  te  Altschuler  (who  is  so  Jacobean),  while 
219 


A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

his  brother  Jacob  (who  is  so  modest)  sat  at 
the  keyboard  and  pressed  down  the  keys  which 
regulated  the  various  tin  tings  on  a  screen;  a 
wholly  superfluous  proceeding,  as  the  colours 
did  not  mollify  the  truculence  of  the  score; 
indeed,  were  quite  meaningless,  though  not 
optically  unpleasant.  I  admired  this  Russian, 
Scriabine,  ever  since  I  heard  Josef  Hofmann 
play  a  piano  of  his  etude  in  I)  sharp  minor. 
Chopinesque,  very,  but  a  decided  personality 
was  also  shown  in  it.  I've  heard  few  of  his 
larger  orchestral  works.  Nevertheless,  I  did  not 
find  Prometheus  as  difficult  of  comprehension  as 
either  Schoenberg  or  Ornstein.  Judged  purely 
on  the  scheme  set  by  its  composer,  I  confess 
I  enjoyed  its  chaotic  beauties  and  passionate 
twaddle,  and  singular  to  relate,  the  music  was 
best  when  it  recalled  Wagner  and  Chopin  (a 
piano  part  occasionally  sounded  bilious  pre 
monitions  of  Chopin).  But,  for  such  a  mighty 
theme  as  Prometheus,  the  Light-B  ringer  (a 
prehistoric  Ben  Franklin  without  his  electrified 
kite),  the  leading  motives  of  this  new  music 
were  often  undersized.  The  dissociation  of 
conventional  keys  was  rigorously  practised, 
and  at  times  we  were  in  the  profoundest  gulfs 
of  cacophony.  But  the  scoring  evoked  many 
novel  effects;  principally,  Berlioz  and  vodka. 
I  still  think  Scriabine  a  remarkable  composer, 
if  not  much  addicted  to  the  languishing  Lydian 
mode.  But  his  Light  Symphony  proved  to 
be  only  a  partial  solution  of  the  problem.  In 
220 


A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

Paris  the  poet  Haraucourt  and  Ernest  Eck 
stein  invented  puppet-shows  with  perfume 
symphonies. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  ago  I  visited  the 
Theatre  d'art,  in  Paris;  that  is,  my  astral 
soul  did,  for  in  those  times  I  was  a  confirmed 
theosophist.  The  day  had  been  a  stupid  one 
in  Gotham,  and  I  hadn't  enough  temperament 
to  light  a  cigarette,  so  I  simply  pressed  the 
nombril  button,  took  my  Rig- Veda  —  a  sacred 
buggy  —  projected  my  astral  being,  and  sailed 
through  space  to  the  French  capital,  there  to 
enjoy  a  bath  in  the  new  art,  or  synthesis  of 
the  seven  arts,  eating  included.  As  it  was  a 
first  performance,  even  the  police  were  deprived 
of  their  press-tickets,  and  the  deepest  mystery 
was  maintained  by  the  experimenters.  I  found 
the  theatre,  soon  after  my  arrival,  plunged 
into  an  orange  gloom,  punctured  by  tiny  balls 
of  violet  light,  which  daintily  and  intermit 
tently  blinked.  The  dominant  odour  of  the  at 
mosphere  was  Cologne- water,  with  a  florid 
counterpoint  that  recalled  bacon  and  eggs,  a 
melange  that  appealed  to  my  nostrils;  and, 
though  at  first  it  seems  hardly  possible  that 
the  two  dissimilar  odours  could  even  be  made 
to  modulate  and  merge,  yet  I  had  not  been 
indoors  ten  minutes  before  the  subtlety  of  the 
duet  was  apparent.  Bacon  has  a  delicious  smell, 
and,  like  a  freshly  cut  lemon,  it  causes  a  pre 
monitory  tickling  of  the  palate  and  little  rills 
of  hunger  in  one's  stomach.  "Aha!"  I  cried 
221 


A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

(astrally,  of  course),  "this  is  a  concatenation 
of  the  senses  never  dreamed  of  by  Plato  when 
he  conceived  the  plan  of  his  Republic." 

The  lanquid  lisp  of  those  assembled  in  the 
theatre  drifted  into  little  sighs,  and  then  a 
low,  long-drawn-out  chord  in  B  flat  minor, 
scored  for  octoroons,  octopuses,  shofars,  tym- 
pani,  and  piccolo,  sounded.  Immediately  a 
chorus  of  male  soprani  blended  with  this  chord, 
though  they  sang  the  common  chord  of  A  major. 
The  effect  was  one  of  vividity  (we  say  "avidity," 
why  can't  we  say  "vividity"?);  it  was  a  dis 
sonance,  pianissimo,  and  it  jarred  my  ears  in 
a  way  that  made  their  drums  warble.  Then 
a  low  burbling  sound  ascended.  "The  bacon 
frying,"  I  cried,  but  I  was  mistaken.  It  was 
caused  by  the  hissing  of  a  sheet  of  carmilion 
(that  is  carmine  and  vermilion)  smoke  which 
slowly  upraised  on  the  stage;  as  it  melted  away 
the  lights  in  the  auditorium  turned  green  and 
topaz,  and  an  odour  of  jasmine  and  stewed 
tomatoes  encircled  us.  My  immediate  neigh 
bours  seemed  to  be  swooning;  they  were  nearly 
prostrate,  with  their  lips  glued  to  the  rod  that 
ran  around  the  seats.  I  grasped  it,  and  received 
a  most  delicious  thrill,  probably  electrical  in 
origin,  though  it  was  velvety  pleasure  merely 
to  touch  it,  and  the  palms  of  my  hands  ex 
quisitely  ached.  "The  tactile  motive,"  I  said. 
As  I  touched  the  rod  I  noted  a  small  mouth 
piece,  and  thinking  I  might  hear  something,  I 
applied  my  ear;  it  instantly  became  wet.  So 
222 


A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

evidently  it  was  not  the  use  to  which  it  should 
be  put.  Again  inspecting  this  mouthpiece,  I 
put  my  finger  to  it  and  cautiously  raised  the 
moist  end  to  my  lips.  " Heavenly!"  I  mur 
mured.  What  sort  of  an  earthly  paradise  was 
I  in?  And  then  losing  no  time,  I  placed  my 
astral  lips  to  the  orifice,  and  took  a  long  pull. 
Gorgeous  was  the  result.  Gumbo  soup,  as  sure 
as  I  ever  ate  it,  not  your  pusillanimous  New 
York  variety,  but  the  genuine  okra  soup  that 
one  can't  find  outside  of  Louisiana,  where  old 
negro  mammies  used  to  make  it  to  perfection. 
"The  soup  motive,"  I  exclaimed. 

Just  as  I  gurgled  the  gumbo  nocturne  down 
my  thirsty  throat,  a  shrill  burst  of  brazen 
clangour  (this  is  not  tautological)  in  the  or 
chestra  roused  me  from  my  dream,  and  I  gazed 
on  the  stage.  The  steam  had  cleared  away, 
and  now  showed  a  rocky  and  wooded  scene, 
the  trees  sky-blue,  the  rocks  a  Nile-green. 
The  band  was  playing  something  that  sounded 
like  a  strabismic  version  of  the  prelude  to 
Tristan.  But  strange  odour-harmonies  dis 
turbed  my  enjoyment  of  the  music,  for  so  subtly 
allied  were  the  senses  in  this  new  temple  of 
art  that  a  separate  smell,  taste,  touch,  vision, 
or  sound  jarred  the  ensemble.  This  uncanny 
interfusion  of  the  arts  took  my  breath  away, 
but,  full  of  gumbo  soup  as  I  was  —  and  you 
have  no  idea  how  soup  discommodes  the  astral 
stomach  —  I  was  anchored  to  my  seat,  and 
bravely  determined  not  to  leave  till  I  had  some 
223 


A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

clew  to  the  riddle  of  the  new  evangel  of  the 
seven  —  or  seventeen  —  arts.  The  stage  re 
mained  bare,  though  the  rocks,  trees,  and  shrub 
bery  changed  their  hues  about  every  twenty 
seconds.  At  last,  as  a  blazing  colour  hit  my 
tired  eyeballs,  and  when  the  odour  had  shifted 
to  decayed  fish,  dried  grapefruit,  and  new- 
mown  hay,  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and, 
turning  to  my  neighbour,  I  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  politely  asked:  " Monsieur,  will 
you  please  tell  me  the  title  of  this  play,  piece, 
drama,  morceau,  stueck,  sonata,  odour,  pic 
ture,  symphony,  cooking-comedy,  or  what 
ever  they  call  it?"  The  young  man  to  whom 
I  had  appealed  looked  fearfully  about  him  — 
I  had  foolishly  forgotten  that  I  was  invisible 
in  my  astral  shape  —  then  clutched  at  his  wind 
pipe,  beat  his  silly  skull,  and  screamed  aloud: 
"Mon  Dieu!  still  another  kind  of  aural 
pleasure,"  and  was  carried  out  in  a  superbly 
vertiginous  fit.  Fright  had  made  him  mad. 
The  spectators  were  too  absorbed,  or  drugged, 
to  pay  attention  to  the  incident.  Followed  a 
slow,  putrid  silence. 

Realising  the  folly  of  addressing  humans  in 
my  astral  garb,  I  sat  down  in  my  corner  and 
again  watched  the  stage.  Still  no  trace  of 
actors.  The  scenery  had  faded  into  a  dullish 
dun  hue,  while  the  orchestra  played  a  Bach 
fugue  for  oboe,  lamp-post  (transposed  to  E 
flat  and  two  policemen)  accordions  in  F  and 
stopped-strumpets.  Suddenly  the  lights  went 
224 


A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

out,  and  we  were  plunged  into  a  blackness  that 
actually  pinched  the  sight,  so  drear,  void,  and 
dead  was  it.  A  smell  of  garlic  made  us  cough, 
and  by  a  sweep  of  some  current  we  were  satu 
rated  with  the  odours  of  white  violets,  the 
lights  were  tuned  in  three  keys:  yellow  of 
eggs,  marron  glace,  and  orchids,  and  the  soup 
supply  shifted  to  whisky-sours.  "How  deli 
cate  these  contrasts!"  hiccoughed  my  neigh 
bour,  and  I  astrally  acquiesced.  Then,  at  last, 
the  stage  became  peopled  by  one  person,  a 
very  tall  old  man  with  three  eyes,  high  heels, 
and  a  deep  voice.  B  randishing  aloft  his  whiskers, 
he  curiously  muttered:  "And  hast  thou  slain 
the  Jabberwock  ?  Come  to  my  arms  my  beamish 
boy."  Alice  in  Wonderland,  was  the  mystery- 
play,  and  I  had  arrived  too  late  to  witness  the 
slaying  of  the  monster  in  its  many-buttoned 
waistcoat.  How  gallantly  the  "beamish  boy" 
must  have  dealt  the  death-stroke  to  the  queer 
brute  as  the  orchestra  sounded  the  Siegfried 
and  the  Dragon  motives,  and  the  air  all  the 
while  redolent  with  heliotrope.  I  couldn't 
help  wondering  what  the  particular  potage 
was  at  this  crucial  moment.  My  cogitation 
was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  gallant- 
appearing  young  knight  in  luminous  armour, 
who  dragged  after  him  a  huge  carcass,  half- 
dragon  and  two-thirds  pig  (the  other  three- 
thirds  must  have  been  suffering  from  stage 
fright).  The  orchestra  proclaimed  the  Abattoir 
motive,  and  instantly  rose-odours  penetrated 
225 


A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

the  air,  the  electric  shocks  ceased,  and  subtle 
little  kicks  were  administered  to  the  audience, 
which,  by  this  time,  was  well-nigh  swooning 
with  these  composite  pleasures.  The  scenery 
had  begun  to  dance  gravely  to  an  odd  Russian 
rhythm,  and  the  young  hero  monotonously 
intoned  a  verse,  making  the  vowel  sounds 
sizzle  with  his  teeth,  and  almost  swallowing 
the  consonants:  "And  as  in  uffish  thought  he 
stood,  the  Jabberwock,  with  eyes  of  flame, 
came  whiffling  through  the  tulgey  wood,  and 
burbled  as  it  came."  "This  beats  Gertrude 
Stein,"  I  thought,  as  the  orchestra  played  the 
Galumphing  motive  from  The  Ride  of  the 
Valkyrs,  and  the  lights  were  transposed  to  a 
shivering  purple.  Then  lilac  steam  ascended, 
the  orchestra  gasped  in  C-D  flat  major  (for 
corno  di  bassetto  and  three  yelping  poodles), 
a  smell  of  cigarettes  and  coffee  permeated  the 
atmosphere,  and  I  knew  that  this  magical  ban 
quet  of  the  senses  was  concluded.  I  was  not 
sorry,  as  every  nerve  was  sore  from  the  strain 
imposed.  Talk  about  faculty  of  attention! 
When  you  are  forced  to  taste,  see,  hear,  touch, 
and  smell  simultaneously,  then  you  yearn  for 
a  less  alembicated  art.  Synthesis  of  the  arts? 
Synthesis  of  rubbish !  One  at  a  time,  and  not 
too  much  time  at  that.  I  pressed  my  astral 
button,  and  flew  homeward,  wearily,  slowly; 
I  was  full  of  soup  and  tone,  and  my  ears  and 
nostrils  quivered  from  exhaustion.  When  I 
landed  at  the  Battery  it  was  exactly  five  o'clock. 
226 


A  SYNTHESIS  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARTS 

It  had  stopped  snowing,  and  an  angry  sun  was 
preparing  to  bathe  for  the  night  in  the  wet 
of  the  western  sky.  New  Jersey  was  etched 
against  a  cold  hard  background,  and  as  an  old 
hand-organ  struck  up  It's  a  Long,  Long  Way 
to  Retrograd,  I  threw  my  cap  in  the  air  and 
joined  in  (astrally,  but  joyfully)  the  group  of 
ragged  children  who  danced  around  the  ven 
erable  organist  with  jeers  and  shouting.  After 
all,  life  is  greater  than  the  Seven  Arts. 


227 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 

THAT  Chopin  is  a  classic  need  not  be  un 
duly  insisted  upon;  he  is  classic  in  the  sense 
of  representing  the  best  in  musical  literature; 
but  that  he  is  of  a  classical  complexion  as  a 
composer  from  the  beginning  of  his  career 
may  seem  in  the  nature  of  a  paradox.  Never 
theless,  it  is  a  thesis  that  can  be  successfully 
maintained  now,  since  old  party  lines  have 
been  effaced.  To  battle  seriously  for  such 
words  as  Classic  or  Romantic  or  Realism  is 
no  longer  possible.  Cultured  Europe  did  so 
for  a  century,  as  it  once  wrangled  over  doc 
trinal  points;  as  if  the  salvation  of  mankind 
depended  upon  the  respective  verbal  merits 
of  transubstantiation  or  consubstantiation. 
Only  yesterday  that  ugly  word  "degeneracy," 
thanks  to  quack  critics  and  charlatan  "psy 
chiatrists,"  figured  as  a  means  of  estimating 
genius.  This  method  has  quite  vanished  among 
reputable  thinkers,  though  it  has  left  behind 
it  another  misunderstood  vocable  —  decadence. 
Wagner  is  called  decadent.  So  is  Chopin. 
While  Richard  Strauss  is  held  up  as  the  prime 
exponent  of  musical  decadence.  What  pre 
cisely  is  decadent?  Says  Havelock  Ellis: 

"Technically,  a  decadent  style  is  only  such 
228 


THE  CLASSIC   CHOPIN 

in  relation  to  a  classic  style.  It  is  simply  a 
further  development  of  a  classic  style,  a  further 
specialisation,  the  homogeneous,  in  Spencerian 
phraseology,  having  become  heterogeneous. 
The  first  is  beautiful  because  the  parts  are 
subordinated  to  the  whole;  the  second  is  beau 
tiful  because  the  whole  is  subordinated  to  the 
parts.  .  .  .  Swift's  prose  is  classic,  Pater's  de 
cadent.  .  .  .  Roman  architecture  is  classic, 
to  become  in  its  Byzantine  developments  com 
pletely  decadent,  and  Saint  Mark's  is  the  per 
fected  type  of  decadence  in  art;  pure  early 
Gothic,  again,  is  strictly  classic  in  the  highest 
degree  because  it  shows  an  absolute  subordina 
tion  of  detail  to  the  bold  harmonies  of  struc 
ture,  while  the  later  Gothic  ...  is  decadent. 
.  .  .  All  art  is  the  rising  and  falling  of  the 
slopes  of  a  rhythmic  curve  between  these  two 
classic  and  decadent  extremes." 

I  make  this  quotation  for  it  clearly  sets  forth 
a  profound  but  not  widely  appreciated  fact. 
In  art,  as  in  life,  there  is  no  absolute.  Perhaps 
the  most  illuminating  statement  concerning  the 
romantic  style  was  uttered  by  Theophile  Gau- 
tier.  Of  it  he  wrote  (in  his  essay  on  Baude 
laire):  "  Unlike  the  classic  style  it  admits 
shadow."  We  need  not  bother  ourselves  about 
the  spirit  of  romanticism;  that  has  been  done 
to  the  death  by  hundreds  of  critics.  And  it 
is  a  sign  of  the  times  that  the  old-fashioned 
Chopin  is  fading,  while  we  are  now  vitally  in 
terested  in  him  as  a  formalist.  Indeed,  Chopin 
229 


THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 

the  romantic,  poetic,  patriotic,  sultry,  sensuous, 
morbid,  and  Chopin  the  pianist,  need  not  enter 
into  our  present  scheme.  He  has  appeared  to 
popular  fancy  as  everything  from  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw  to  an  exotic  drawing-room  hero; 
from  the  sentimental  consumptive  consoled 
by  countesses  to  the  accredited  slave  of  George 
Sand.  All  this  is  truly  the  romantic  Chopin. 
It  is  the  obverse  of  the  medal  that  piques  curi 
osity.  Why  the  classic  quality  of  his  composi 
tions,  their  clarity,  concision,  purity,  structural 
balance,  were  largely  missed  by  so  many  of 
his  contemporaries  is  a  mystery.  Because  of 
his  obviously  romantic  melodies  he  was  def 
initely  ranged  with  the  most  extravagant  of 
the  romantics,  with  Berlioz,  Schumann,  Liszt; 
but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  is  formally  closer 
to  Mendelssohn.  His  original  manner  of  dis 
tributing  his  thematic  material  deceived  the 
critics.  He  refused  to  join  the  revolutionists; 
later  in  the  case  of  Flaubert  we  come  upon  an 
analogous  condition.  Hailed  as  chief  of  the 
realists,  the  author  of  Madame  B ovary  took  an 
ironic  delight  in  publishing  Salammbo,  which 
was  romantic  enough  to  please  that  prince  of 
romanticists,  Victor  Hugo.  Chopin  has  been 
reproached  for  his  tepid  attitude  toward  ro 
manticism,  and  also  because  of  his  rather  caustic 
criticisms  of  certain  leaders.  He,  a  musical 
aristocrat  pur  sang,  held  aloof,  though  he  per 
mitted  himself  to  make  some  sharp  commen 
taries  on  Schubert,  Schumann,  and  Berlioz. 
230 


THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 

Decidedly  not  a  romantic  despite  his  romantic 
externalism.  Decidedly  a  classic  despite  his 
romantic  "content."  Of  him  Stendhal  might 
have  written:  a  classic  is  a  dead  romantic. 
(Heine  left  no  epic,  yet  he  is  an  indubitable 
classic.)  Wise  Goethe  said:  "The  point  is  for 
a  work  to  be  thoroughly  good  and  then  it  is 
sure  to  be  classical." 

But  it  is  not  because  of  the  classicism 
achieved  by  the  pathos  of  distance  that  Chopin's 
special  case  makes  an  appeal.  It  is  Chopin 
as  a  consummate  master  of  music  that  interests 
us.  In  his  admirable  Chopin  the  Composer, 
Edgar  Stillman  Kelley  considers  Chopin  and 
puts  out  of  court  the  familiar  "gifted  ama 
teur,"  "  improvisatore  of  genius,"  and  the  rest 
of  the  theatrical  stock  description  by  proving 
beyond  peradventure  of  a  doubt  that  Frederic 
Francois  Chopin  was  not  only  a  creator  of  new 
harmonies,  inventor  of  novel  figuration,  but 
also  a  musician  skilled  in  the  handling  of  formal 
problems,  one  grounded  in  the  schools  of  Bach, 
Mozart,  and  Beethoven;  furthermore,  that  if  he 
did  not  employ  the  sonata  form  in  its  severest 
sense,  he  literally  built  on  it  as  a  foundation. 
He  managed  the  rondo  with  ease  and  grace, 
and  if  he  did  not  write  fugues  it  was  because 
the  fugue  form  did  not  attract  him.  Perhaps 
the  divination  of  his  own  limitations  is  a  further 
manifestation  of  his  extraordinary  genius.  This 
does  not  imply  that  Chopin  had  any  particular 
genius  in  counterpoint,  but  to  deny  his  mastery 
231 


THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 

of  polyphony  is  a  grave  error.  And  it  is  still 
denied  with  the  very  evidence  staring  his  critics 
in  the  face.  Beethoven  in  his  sonatas  demon 
strated  his  individuality,  though  coming  after 
Mozart's  perfect  specimens  in  that  form. 
Chopin  did  not  try  to  bend  the  bow  of  Ulysses, 
though  more  than  a  word  might  be  said  of  his 
two  last  Sonatas  —  the  first  is  boyishly  pedantic, 
and  monotonous  in  key-contrast,  while  the 
'cello  and  piano  sonata  hardly  can  be  ranked 
as  an  exemplar  of  classic  form. 

Of  the  Etudes  Kelley  says: 

"In  this  group  of  masterpieces  we  find  the 
more  desirable  features  of  the  classical  school 
—  diatonic  melodies,  well-balanced  phrase  and 
period-building  —  together  with  the  richness  af 
forded  by  chromatic  harmonies  and  modulatory 
devices  heretofore  unknown." 

Indeed,  a  new  system  of  music  that  changed 
the  entire  current  of  the  art.  It  was  not  with 
out  cause  that  I  once  called  Chopin  the  "open 
door";  through  his  door  the  East  entered  and 
whether  for  good  or  for  ill  certainly  revolu 
tionised  Western  music.  Mr.  Hadow  is  right 
in  declaring  that  "Mozart,  Beethoven,  Schubert, 
are  not  as  far  from  each  other  as  the  music  of 
1880  from  that  of  1914."  And  Chopin  was 
the  most  potent  influence,  in  company  with 
Beethoven  and  Wagner,  in  bringing  about  that 
change.  I  say  in  company  with  Beethoven  and 
Wagner,  for  I  heartily  agree  with  Frederick 
Niecks  in  his  recent  judgment: 
232 


THE   CLASSIC   CHOPIN 

"I  consider  Chopin  to  be  one  of  the  three 
most  powerful  factors  in  the  development  of 
nineteenth-century  music,  the  other  two  being, 
of  course,  Beethoven  and  Wagner.  The  ab 
solute  originality  of  Chopin's  personality,  and 
that  of  its  expression  through  novel  harmony, 
chromaticism,  figuration  justifies  the  asser 
tion.  And  none  will  deny  the  fact  who  takes 
the  trouble  to  trace  the  Polish  master's  influence 
on  his  contemporaries  and  successors.  The 
greatest  and  most  powerful  composers  came 
under  this  influence,  to  a  large  extent,  by  the 
process  of  infiltration." 

Kelley  gives  us  chapter  and  verse  in  the 
particular  case  of  Wagner  and  his  absorption 
of  the  harmonic  schemes  of  Chopin,  as  did  the 
late  Anton  Seidl  many  times  for  my  particular 
benefit. 

However,  this  only  brings  us  to  Chopin  the 
innovator,  whereas  it  is  the  aspect  of  the  classic 
Chopin  which  has  been  neglected.  "As  far 
back  as  1840  Chopin  was  employing  half-tones 
with  a  freedom  that  brought  upon  him  the 
wrath  of  conservative  critics,"  writes  Hadow, 
who  admires  the  Pole  with  reservations,  not 
placing  him  in  such  august  company  as  has 
Kelley  and  Niecks.  True,  Chopin  was  a  pioneer 
in  several  departments  of  his  art,  yet  how  few 
recognised  or  recognise  to-day  that  Schumann  is 
the  more  romantic  composer  of  the  pair;  his 
music  is  a  very  jungle  of  romantic  formlessness; 
his  Carneval  the  epitome  of  romantic  musical 
233 


THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 

portraiture  —  with  its  "Chopin"  more  Chopin 
than  the  original.  Contrast  the  noble  Fantasy  in 
C,  Opus  17  of  Schumann,  with  the  equally  noble 
Fantasy  in  F  minor,  Opus  49  of  Chopin,  and  ask 
which  is  the  more  romantic  in  spirit,  structure, 
and  technique.  Unquestionably  to  Schumann 
would  be  awarded  the  quality  of  romanticism. 
He  is  more  fantastic,  though  his  fantasy  is 
less  decorative;  he  strays  into  the  most  de 
lightful  and  umbrageous  paths  and  never  falters 
in  the  preservation  of  romantic  atmosphere. 
Now  look  on  the  other  picture.  There  is  Chopin, 
who,  no  matter  his  potentialities,  never  experi 
mented  in  the  larger  symphonic  mould,  and  as 
fully  imbued  with  the  poetic  spirit  as  Schu 
mann;  nevertheless  a  master  of  his  patterns, 
whether  in  figuration  or  general  structure.  His 
Mazourkas  are  sonnets,  and  this  Fantasy  in 
F  minor  is,  as  Kelley  points  out,  a  highly  com 
plex  rondo;  as  are  the  Ballades  and  Scherzos. 
Beethoven,  doubtless,  would  have  developed 
the  eloquent  main  theme  more  significantly; 
strictly  speaking,  Chopin  introduces  so  much 
new  melodic  material  that  the  rondo  form  is 
greatly  modified,  yet  never  quite  banished. 
The  architectonics  of  the  composition  are  more 
magnificent  than  in  Schumann,  although  I  do 
not  propose  to  make  invidious  comparisons. 
Both  works  are  classics  in  the  accepted  sense 
of  the  term.  But  Chopin's  Fantasy  is  more 
classic  in  structure  and  sentiment. 
The  Sonatas  in  B  flat  minor  and  B  minor  are 
234 


THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 

"awful  examples"  for  academic  theorists.  They 
are  not  faultless  as  to  form  and  do  sadly  lack 
organic  unity.  Schumann  particularly  crit 
icises  the  Sonata  Opus  35  because  of  the  in 
clusion  of  the  Funeral  March  and  the  homo- 
phonic,  "invertebrate"  finale.  But  the  two 
first  movements  are  distinct  contributions  to 
Sonata  literature,  even  if  in  the  first  move 
ment  the  opening  theme  is  not  recapitulated. 
I  confess  that  I  am  glad  it  is  not,  though  the 
solemn  title  "Sonata"  becomes  thereby  a  mock 
ery.  The  composer  adequately  treats  this  first 
motive  in  the  development  section  so  that  its 
absence  later  is  not  annoyingly  felt.  There 
are,  I  agree  with  Mr.  Kelley,  some  bars  that 
are  surprisingly  like  a  certain  page  of  Die 
Gotterdammerung,  as  the  Feuerzauber  music 
may  be  noted  in  the  flickering  chromaticism  of 
the  E  minor  Concerto;  or  as  the  first  phrase 
of  the  C  minor  Etude,  Opus  10,  No.  12,  is  to 
be  found  in  Tristan  and  Isolde  —  Isolde's 
opening  measure,  "Wer  wagt  mich  zu  hohnen." 
(The  orchestra  plays  the  identical  Chopin 
phrase.)  This  first  movement  of  the  B  flat 
minor  Sonata  —  with  four  bars  of  introduction, 
evidently  suggested  by  the  sublime  opening 
of  Beethoven's  C  minor  Sonata,  Opus  in,  does 
not  furnish  us  with  as  concrete  an  example  as  the 
succeeding  Scherzo  in  E  flat  minor,  (for  me) 
one  of  the  most  perfect  examples  of  Chopin's 
exquisite  formal  sense.  While  it  is  not  as  long- 
breathed  as  the  C  sharp  minor  Scherzo,  its 
235 


THE  CLASSIC   CHOPIN 

concision  makes  it  more  tempting  to  the  student. 
In  character  stormier  than  the  Scherzo,  Opus 
39,  its  thematic  economy  and  development  — 
by  close  parallelism  of  phraseology,  as  Hadow 
points  out  —  reveal  not  only  a  powerful  crea 
tive  impulse,  but  erudition  of  the  highest  order. 
No  doubt  Chopin  did  improvise  freely,  did 
come  easily  by  his  melodies,  but  the  travail 
of  a  giant  in  patience  —  again  you  think  of 
Flaubert  —  is  shown  in  the  polishing  of  his 
periods.  He  is  a  poet  who  wrote  perfect  pages. 
The  third  Scherzo,  less  popular  but  of  deeper 
import  than  the  one  in  B  flat  minor,  is  in  spirit 
splenetic,  ironical,  and  passionate,  yet  with  what 
antithetic  precision  and  balance  the  various  and 
antagonistic  moods  are  grasped  and  portrayed. 
And  every  measure  is  logically  accounted  for. 
The  automatism  inherent  in  all  passage  work 
he  almost  eliminated,  and  he  spiritualised 
ornament  and  arabesque.  It  is  the  triumph 
of  art  over  temperament.  No  one  has  ever 
accused  Chopin  of  lacking  warmth;  indeed, 
thanks  to  a  total  misconception  of  his  music, 
he  is  tortured  into  a  roaring  tornado  by  sen 
timentalists  and  virtuosi.  But  if  he  is  care 
fully  studied  it  will  be  seen  that  he  is  greatly 
preoccupied  with  form  —  his  own  form,  be  it 
understood  —  and  that  the  linear  in  nearly 
all  of  his  compositions  takes  precedence  over 
colour.  I  know  this  sounds  heretical.  But 
while  I  do  not  yield  an  iota  in  my  belief  that 
Chopin  is  the  most  poetic  among  composers 
236 


THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 

(as  Shelley  is  among  poets,  and  Vermeer  is 
the  painter's  painter)  it  is  high  time  that  he 
be  viewed  from  a  different  angle.  The  versa 
tility  of  the  man,  his  genius  as  composer  and 
pianist,  the  novelty  of  his  figuration  and  form 
dazzled  his  contemporaries  or  else  blinded  them 
to  his  true  import.  Individual  as  are  the 
six  Scherzos  —  two  of  them  are  in  the  Sonatas 
—  they  nevertheless  stem  from  classic  soil; 
the  scherzo  is  not  new  with  him,  nor  are  its 
rhythms.  But  the  Ballades  are  Chopinesque 
to  the  last  degree,  with  their  embellished  the 
matic  cadenzas,  modulatory  motives,  richly 
decorated  harmonic  designs,  and  their  incom 
parable  "  con  tent";  above  all,  in  their  ampli 
fication  of  the  coda,  a  striking  extension  of  the 
postlude,  making  it  as  pregnant  with  meaning 
as  the  main  themes.  The  lordly  flowing  narra 
tion  of  the  G  minor  Ballade;  the  fantastic 
wavering  outlines  of  the  second  Ballade  — 
which  on  close  examination  exhibits  the  firm 
burin  of  a  masterful  etcher;  the  beloved  third 
Ballade,  a  formal  masterpiece;  and  the  F 
minor  Ballade,  most  elaborate  and  decorative 
of  the  set  —  are  there,  I  ask,  in  all  piano  lit 
erature  such  original  compositions?  The  four 
Impromptus  are  mood  pictures,  highly  finished, 
not  lacking  boldness  of  design,  and  in  the  second, 
F  sharp  major,  there  are  fertile  figurative  devices 
and  rare  harmonic  treatment.  The  melodic 
organ-point  is  original.  Polyphonic  complexity 
is  to  be  found  in  some  of  the  Mazourkas.  Ehlert 
237 


THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 

mentions  a  " perfect  canon  in  the  octave"  in 
one  of  them  (C  sharp  minor,  Opus  63). 

Of  the  Concertos  there  is  less  to  be  said,  for 
the  conventional  form  was  imposed  by  the  title. 
Here  Chopin  is  not  the  Greater  Chopin,  not 
withstanding  the  beautiful  music  for  the  solo 
instrument.  The  sonata  form  is  not  desperately 
evaded,  and  in  the  rondo  of  the  E  minor  Con 
certo  he  overtops  Hummel  on  his  native  heath. 
As  to  the  instrumentation  I  do  not  believe 
Chopin  had  much  to  do  with  it;  it  is  the  average 
colourless  scoring  of  his  day.  Nor  do  I  believe 
with  some  of  his  admirers  that  he  will  bear 
transposition  to  the  orchestra,  or  even  to  the 
violin.  It  does  not  attenuate  the  power  and 
originality  of  his  themes  that  they  are  es 
sentially  of  the  piano.  A  song  is  for  the  voice 
and  is  not  bettered  by  orchestral  arrangement. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  the  classic  concertos 
for  violin.  With  all  due  respect  for  those  who 
talk  about  the  Beethoven  Sonatas  being  "or 
chestral,"  I  only  ask,  Why  is  it  they  sound  so 
"unorchestral"  when  scored  for  the  full  battery 
of  instruments?  The  Sonata  Pathetique  loses 
its  character  thus  treated.  So  does  the  A  flat 
Polonaise  of  Chopin,  heroic  as  are  its  themes. 
Render  unto  the  keyboard  that  which  is  com 
posed  for  it.  The  Appassionata  Sonata  in  its 
proper  medium  is  as  thrilling  as  the  Eroica 
Symphony.  The  so-called  "orchestral  test" 
is  no  test  at  all;  only  a  confusion  of  terms  and 
of  artistic  substances.  Chopin  thought  for 
238 


THE  CLASSIC  CHOPIN 

the  piano;  he  is  the  greatest  composer  for  the 
piano;  by  the  piano  he  stands  or  falls.  The 
theme  of  the  grandiose  A  minor  Etude  (Opus 
25,  No.  n)  is  a  perfect  specimen  of  his  inven 
tion;  yet  it  sounds  elegiac  and  feminine  when 
compared  with  the  first  tragic  theme  of  Bee 
thoven's  C  minor  Symphony. 

The  Allegro  de  Concert,  Opus  46,  is  not  his 
most  distinguished  work,  truncated  concerto 
as  it  is,  but  it  proves  that  he  could  fill  a  larger 
canvas  than  the  Valse.  In  the  Mazourkas 
and  Etudes  he  is  closer  to  Bach  than  elsewhere. 
His  early  training  under  Eisner  was  sound  and 
classical.  But  he  is  the  real  Chopin  when  he 
goes  his  own  way,  a  fiery  poet,  a  bold  musician, 
but  also  a  refined,  tactful  temperament,  de 
spising  the  facile,  the  exaggerated,  and  bent 
upon  achieving  a  harmonious  synthesis.  Truly 
a  classic  composer  in  his  solicitude  for  contour, 
and  chastity  of  style.  The  Slav  was  tempered 
by  the  Gallic  strain.  Insatiable  in  his  dreams, 
he  fashioned  them  into  shapes  of  enduring 
beauty. 

You  would  take  from  us  the  old  Chopin,  the 
greater  Chopin,  the  dramatic,  impassioned 
poet-improvisatore,  I  hear  some  cry!  Not  in 
the  least.  Chopin  is  Chopin.  He  sings,  even 
under  the  fingers  of  pedants,  and  to-day  is 
butchered  in  the  classroom  to  make  a  holiday 
for  theorists.  Nevertheless,  he  remains  unique. 
Sometimes  the  whole  in  his  work  is  subordinated 
to  the  parts,  sometimes  the  parts  are  subordi- 
239 


THE  CLASSIC   CHOPIN 

nated  to  the  whole.  The  romantic  " shadow"  is 
there,  also  the  classic  structure.  Again  let  me 
call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that  if  he  had  not 
juggled  so  mystifyingly  with  the  sacrosanct  tonic 
and  dominant,  had  not  distributed  his  thematic 
material  in  a  different  manner  from  the  pre 
scribed  methods  of  the  schools,  he  would  have 
been  cheerfully,  even  enthusiastically,  saluted 
by  his  generation.  But,  then,  we  should  have 
lost  the  real  Chopin. 


240 


CHAPTER  XXII 
LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

BARNEY  IN  THE  BOX-OFFICE 

First  Scene.  It  is  snowing  on  the  Strand. 
Not  an  American  actor  is  in  sight,  though 
voices  are  wafted  occasionally  from  the  bar 
of  the  Savoy  (remember  this  is  a  play,  and  the 
unusual  is  bound  to  happen).  In  front  of  the 
newly  built  Theatre  of  Arts,  Shaw,  and  Science, 
two  figures  stand  as  if  gazing  at  the  brilliantly 
lighted  facade.  The  doors  are  wide  open,  a 
thin  and  bearded  man  sits  smiling  and  talking 
to  himself  in  the  box-office.  His  whiskers  are 
as  sandy  as  his  wit.  The  pair  outside  regard 
him  suspiciously.  Both  are  tiny  fellows,  one 
clean-shaven,  the  other  wearing  elaborately 
arranged  hair  on  his  face.  They  are  the  two 
Maxes  —  Nordau  and  Birnbaum.  Says  Nor- 
dau: 

" Isn't  that  Bernard  in  the  booking-office?" 
"By  jove,  it  is,  let's  go  in."  "Hasn't  he  a  new 
play  on?"  "I  can't  say.  I'm  only  a  critic  of 
the  drayma."  "No  cynicism,  Maxixe,"  urges 
Nordau.  They  approach.  In  unanimous  flakes 
the  snow  falls.  It  is  very  cold.  Cries  Bernard 
on  recognising  them: 

"Hi  there,  skip!  To-night  free  list  is  sus- 
241 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

pended.  I'm  giving  my  annual  feast  in  the 
Cave  of  Culture  of  the  modern  idols,  in  one 
scene.  No  one  may  enter,  least  of  all  you, 
Nordau,  or  you,  Sir  Critic."  "Why,  what's 
up,  George?"  asks  in  a  pleading  mid- Victorian 
timbre  the  little  Maxixe.  "Back  to  the  woods, 
both  of  you!"  commands  George,  who  has 
read  both  Mark  Twain  and  Oliver  Herford. 
"Besides,"  he  confidentially  adds,  "you  surely 
don't  wish  to  go  to  a  play  in  which  your  old 
friends  Ibsen  and  Nietzsche  are  to  be  on  view." 
"On  view!"  quoth  the  author  of  Degeneration. 
"Yes,  visible  on  a  short  furlough  from  Sheol, 
for  one  night  only.  My  benefit.  Step  up,  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  A  few  seats  left.  The  greatest 
show  on  earth.  I'm  in  it.  Lively,  please!" 
A  mob  rushes  in.  The  two  Maxes  fade  into  the 
snow,  but  in  the  eyes  of  one  there  is  a  malicious 
glitter.  "I'm  no  Maxixe,"  he  murmurs,  "if 
I  can't  get  into  a  theatre  without  paying." 
Nordau  doesn't  heed  him.  They  part.  The 
night  closes  in,  and  only  the  musical  rattle  of 
bangles  on  a  naughty  wrist  is  heard. 

Second  Scene.  On  the  stage  of  the  theatre 
there  are  two  long  tables.  The  scene  is  set  as 
if  for  a  banquet.  The  curtain  is  down.  Some 
men  walk  about  conversing  —  some  calmly, 
some  feverishly.  Several  are  sitting.  The 
lighting  is  feeble.  However,  may  be  discerned 
familiar  figures;  Victor  Hugo  solemnly  speak 
ing  to  Charles  Baudelaire  —  who  shivers  (un 
nouveau  frisson);  Flaubert  in  a  corner  roaring 
242 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

at  Sainte-Beuve  —  the  old  row  over  Salammbd 
is  on  again.  Richard  Strauss  is  pulling  at  the 
velvet  coat-tails  of  Richard  Wagner,  without 
attracting  his  attention.  The  Master,  in  com 
pany  with  nearly  all  the  others,  is  staring  at 
a  large  clock  against  the  back  drop.  "Listen 
for  the  Parsifal  chimes, "  he  says,  delight  play 
ing  over  his  rugged  features.  "Ape  of  the 
ideal,"  booms  a  deep  voice  hard  by.  It  is  that 
of  Nietzsche,  whose  moustaches  droop  in  Polish 
cavalier  style. 

"Batiushka !  If  those  two  Dutchmen  quarrel 
over  the  virility  of  Parsifal  I'm  going  away." 
The  speaker  is  Tolstoy,  attired  in  his  newest 
Moujik  costume,  top-boots  and  all.  In  his 
left  hand  he  holds  a  spade.  "To  table,  gentle 
men  ! "  It  is  the  jolly  voice  of  the  Irish  Ibsen, 
G.  B.  S.  Lights  flare  up.  Without  is  heard 
the  brumming  of  the  audience,  an  orchestra 
softly  plays  motives  from  Pelleas  et  Melisande. 
Wagner  wipes  his  spectacles,  and  Maurice 
Maeterlinck  crushes  a  block  of  Belgian  oaths 
between  his  powerful  teeth.  But  Debussy 
doesn't  appear  to  notice  either  man.  He  lan 
guidly  strikes  his  soup-spoon  on  a  silver  salt 
cellar  and  immediately  jots  down  musical 
notation.  "The  correspondences  of  nuances," 
he  sings  to  his  neighbour,  who  happens  to  be 
Whistler.  "The  correspondence  of  fudge," 
retorts  James.  "D'ye  think  I'm  interested  in 
wall-paper  music?  Oh,  Lil'libulero ! "  All  are 
now  seated.  With  his  accustomed  lingual  dex- 
243 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

terity  Mr.  Shaw  says  grace,  calling  down  a 
blessing  upon  the  papier-mache  fowls  and  the 
pink  stage-tea,  from  what  he  describes  as  a 
gaseous  invertebrate  god  —  he  has  read  Haeckel 

—  and  winds  up  with  a  few  brilliant  heartless 
remarks : 

"I  wish  you  gentlemen,  ghosts,  idols,  gods, 
and  demigods,  alive  or  dead,  to  remember 
that  you  are  assembled  here  this  evening  to 
honour  me.  Without  me,  and  my  books  and 
plays,  you  would,  all  of  you,  be  dead  in  earnest 

—  dead  literature  as  well  as  dead  bones.     As 
for  the  living,  I'll  have  a  shy  at  you  some  day. 
I'm  not  fond  of  Maeterlinck.     ["Hear,  hear!" 
comes  from  Debussy's  mystic  beard.]     As  for 
you,  Maurice,  I  can  beat  you  hands  down  at 
bettering  Shakespeare,  and,  for  Richard  Strauss 
—  well,  I've  never  tried  orchestration,  but  I'm 
sure  I'd  succeed  as  well  as  you 

"Oh,  please,  won't  some  one  give  me  a  roast- 
beef  sandwich?  In  Russia  I  daren't  eat  meat 
on  account  of  my  disciples  there  and  in  Eng 
land  — "  It  is  Tolstoy  who  speaks.  Shaw  fixes 
him  with  an  indignant  look,  he,  the  prince  of 
vegetarians:  "Give  him  some  salt,  he  needs 
salting."  In  tears,  Tolstoy  resumes  his  read 
ing  of  the  confessions  of  Huysmans.  The  band, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  curtain,  swings  into  the 
Kaisermarch.  "Stop  them!  Stop  it!"  screams 
Wagner.  I'm  a  Social-Democrat  now.  I  wrote 
that  march  when  I  was  a  Monarchist."  This 
was  the  chance  for  Nietzsche.  Drawing  up  his 
244 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

tall,  lanky  figure,  he  began:  "You  mean,  Herr 
Geyer  —  to  give  you  your  real  name  —  you 
wrote  it  for  money.  You  mean,  Richard  Geyer, 
that  you  cut  your  musical  coat  to  suit  your 
snobbish  cloth.  You  mean,  the  Wagner  you 
never  were,  that  you  wrote  your  various  operas 
—  which  you  call  music-dramas  —  to  flatter 
your  various  patrons.  Parsifal  for  the  decadent 
King  Ludwig " 

"Pardieu !  this  is  too  much."  Manet's  blond 
beard  wagged  with  rage.  "Have  we  assembled 
this  night  to  fight  over  ancient  treacheries,  or 
are  we  met  to  do  honour  to  the  only  man  in 
England,  and  an  Irishman  at  that,  who,  in  his 
plays,  has  kept  alive  the  ideas  of  Ibsen, 
Nietzsche,  Wagner?  As  for  me,  I  don't  need 
such  booming.  I'm  a  modest  man.  I'm  a 
painter."  "Hein!  You  a  painter!"  Sitting 
alone,  Gerome  discloses  spiteful  intonations 
in  his  voice.  "Yes,  a  painter,"  hotly  replies 
Manet.  "And  I'm  in  the  Louvre,  my  Olympe 
— "  "All  the  worse  for  the  Louvre,"  sneers 
Gerome.  The  two  men  would  have  been  at 
each  other's  throats  if  some  one  from  the  Land 
of  the  Midnight  Whiskers  hadn't  intervened. 
It  was  Henrik  Ibsen. 

"Children,"  he  remarks,  in  a  strong  Nor 
wegian  brogue,  "please  to  .remember  my  dig 
nity  if  not  your  own.  Long  before  Max  S timer 
— "  Nietzsche  interrupted:  "There  never  was 
such  a  person."  Ibsen  calmly  continued,  "I 
wrote  that  'my  truth  is  the  truth.'  And  when 
245 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

I  see  such  so-called  great  men  acting  like  chil 
dren,  I  regret  having  left  my  cool  tomb  in  Nor 
way.  But  where  are  the  English  dramatists, 
our  confreres?  Ask  the  master  of  the  revels." 
Ibsen  sat  down.  Shaw  pops  in  his  head  at  a 
practicable  door. 

"Who  calls?" 

"We  wish  to  know  why  our  brethren,  the 
English  playwrights,  are  not  bidden  to  meet 
us?"  said  Maeterlinck,  after  gravely  bowing 
to  Ibsen.  Smiling  beatifically,  Saint  Bernard 
replied : 

"Because  there  ain't  no  sich  thing  as  an 
English  dramatist.  The  only  English  dramatist 
is  Irish."  He  disappears.  Ensues  a  lively 
argument.  "He  may  be  right,"  exclaims  Mae 
terlinck,"  yet  I  seem  to  have  heard  of  Pinero, 
Henry  Arthur  Jones,  Barrie  —  well,  I'll  have 
to  ask  the  trusty  A.  B.  C.  Z.  Walkley."  "And 
the  Americans?"  cries  Ibsen,  who  is  annoyed 
because  Richard  Strauss  persists  in  asking  for 
a  symphonic  scenario  of  Peer  Gynt.  "I'm 
sure,"  the  composer  complains,  "Grieg  will 
be  forgotten  if  I  write  new  incidental  music 
for  you."  Ibsen  looks  at  him  sourly. 

"American  dramatists,  or  do  you  mean  Amer 
ican  millionaires?"  Manet  interpolated.  "No, 
I  fancy  he  means  the  American  painters  who 
imitate  my  pictures,  making  them  better  than 
the  originals,  and  also  getting  better  prices 
than  I  did." 

"What  envy!  what  slandering!  what  envious 
246 


LITTLE  MIRRORS   OF  SINCERITY 

feelings!'7  sighs  Nietzsche.  "If  my  doctrine 
of  the  Eternal  Recurrence  of  all  things  sub 
lunary  is  a  reality,  then  I  shall  be  sitting  with 
these  venomous  spiders,  shall  be  in  this  identical 
spot  a  trillion  of  years  hence.  Oh,  horrors! 
Why  was  I  born?" 

"Divided  tones,"  argues  Manet,  clutching 
Whistler  by  his  carmilion  necktie,  "are  the 
only — "  Suddenly  Shaw  leaps  on  the  stage. 

"Gentlemen,  gods,  ghosts,  idols,  I've  bad  news 
for  you.  Max  Nordau  is  in  the  audience." 
"Nordau!"  wails  every  one.  Before  the  lights 
could  be  extinguished  the  guests  were  under 
the  table.  "No  taking  chances,"  whispers 
Nietzsche.  "Quoi  done !  who  is  this  Nordau  — 
a  spy  of  Napoleon's?"  demands  Hugo,  in  be 
wildered  accents.  For  answer,  Baudelaire 
shivers  and  intones:  "O  Poe,  Poe!  0  Edgar 
Poe."  Silence  so  profound  that  one  hears  the 
perspiration  drop  from  Wagner's  massive  brow. 

Third  Scene.  It  still  snows  without.  Max, 
the  only  Nordau,  stands  in  silent  pride.  He 
is  alone.  The  erstwhile  illuminated  theatre 
is  as  dark  as  the  Hall  of  Eblis.  "Gone  the 
idols !  All.  I  need  but  crack  that  old  whip  of 
Decadence  and  they  crumble.  So  much  for  a 
mere  word.  And  now  to  work.  I'll  write  the 
unique  tale  of  Shaw's  Cave  of  Idols,  for  I  alone 
witnessed  the  denouement."  He  spoke  aloud. 
Judge  his  chagrin  when  he  heard  the  other  Max 
give  him  this  cheery  leading  motive:  "I  saw 
it  all  —  what  a  story  for  my  weekly  review." 
247 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

"How  like  a  yellow  pear-tree!"  exclaims  the 
disgusted  theorist  of  mad  genius.  Nordau 
speeds  his  way,  as  from  the  box-office  comes 
the  chink  of  silver.  It  is  G.  B.  S.  counting  the 
cash.  Who  says  a  poet  can't  be  a  pragmatist? 
The  little  Maxixe  calls  out:  "Me,  too,  Blarney! 
Remember  I'm  the  only  living  replica  of 
Charles  Lamb."  "You  mean  dead  mutton," 
tartly  replied  Bernard.  The  other  giggled. 
"The  same  dear  old  whimsical  cactus,"  he 
cries;  "but  with  all  your  faults  we  love  you 
still  —  I  said  still,  if  that's  possible  for  your 
tongue,  George,  quite  still ! "  Curtain. 

THE  WOMAN  WHO  BUYS 

She  (entering  art  gallery):  "I  wish  to  buy 
a  Titian  for  my  bridge-whist  this  evening.  Is 
it  possible  for  you  to  send  me  one  to  the  hotel 
in  time?"  He  (nervously  elated):  "Impos 
sible.  I  sent  the  last  Titian  we  had  in  stock  to 
Mrs.  Groats's  Dejeuner  Feroce."  She  (making 
a  face):  "That  woman  again.  Oh,  dear,  how 
tiresome!"  He  (eagerly):  "But  I  can  give 
you  a  Raphael."  She  (dubiously):  "Raphael 
-who?"  He  (magisterially):  "There  are 
three  Raphaels,  Madame  —  the  archangel  of 
that  name,  Raphael  Sanzio,  the  painter,  and 
Raphael  Joseffy.  It  is  to  the  second  one  I 
allude.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  — " 
She  (hurriedly):  "Oh!  not  at  all.  I  fancy  it's 
all  right.  Send  it  up  this  afternoon,  or  hadn't 
248 


LITTLE  MIRRORS   OF  SINCERITY 

I  better  take  it  along  in  my  car?"  (A  shrill 
hurry-up  booing  is  heard  without.  It  is  the 
voice  of  the  siren  on  a  new  one  hundred  horse 
power  Cubist  machine,  1918  pattern.)  She 
(guiltily):  "Tiens!  That  is  my  chauffeur, 
Constant.  The  poor  fellow.  He  is  always  so 
hungry  about  this  time.  By  the  way,  Mr. 
Frame,  how  much  do  you  ask  for  that  Raphael  ? 
My  husband  is  so  —  yes,  really,  stingy  this 
winter.  He  says  I  buy  too  much,  forgetting 
we  are  all  beggars,  anyhow.  And  what  is  the 
subject?  I  want  something  cheerful  for  the 
game,  you  know.  It  consoles  the  kickers  who 
lose  to  look  at  a  pretty  picture."  He  (joy 
fully):  "Oh,  the  price!  The  subject!  A  half- 
million  is  the  price  —  surely  not  too  much. 
The  picture  is  called  The  Wooing  of  Eve.  It 
has  been  engraved  by  Bartolozzi.  Oh,  oh, 
it  is  a  genuine  Raphael.  There  are  no  more 
imitation  old  masters,  only  modern  art  is  forged 
nowadays."  She  (interrupting,  proudly) :  "  Bar 
tolozzi,  the  man  who  paints  skinny  women  in 
Florence,  something  like  Boldini,  only  in  old- 
fashioned  costumes?"  He  (resignedly):  "No, 
Madame.  Possibly  you  allude  to  Botticelli. 
The  Bartolozzi  I  mention  was  a  school  friend 
of  Raphael  or  a  cousin  to  Michael  Angelo- 
I've  forgotten  which.  That's  why  he  engraved 
Raphael's  paintings."  (He  colours  as  he  re 
calls  conflicting  dates.)  She  (in  a  hurry):  "It 
doesn't  much  matter,  Mr.  Frame,  I  hate  all 
this  affectation  over  a  lot  of  musty,  fusty  pic- 
249 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

tures.  Send  it  up  with  the  bill.  I  ought  to 
win  at  least  half  the  money  from  Mrs.  Stone- 
rich."  (She  rushes  away.  An  odour  of  violets 
and  stale  cigarette  smoke  floats  through  the 
hallway.  The  siren  screams,  and  a  rumbling 
is  heard  in  the  middle  distance.)  He  (waking, 
as  if  from  a  sweet  dream,  vigorously  shouts): 
"  George,  George,  fetch  down  that  canvas 
Schmiere  painted  for  us  last  summer,  and 
stencil  it  Raphael  Sanzio.  Yes  —  S-a-n-z-i-o  — 
got  it?  Hurry  up!  I'm  off  for  the  day.  If 
any  one  'phones,  I'm  over  at  Sherry's,  in  the 
Cafe."  (Saunters  out,  swinging  his  stick, 
and  repeating  the  old  Russian  proverb,  "A 
dark  forest  is  the  heart  of  a  woman.") 

SCHOOLS  IN  ART 

"Yes,"  said  the  venerable  auctioneer,  as  he 
shook  his  white  head,  "yes,  I  watch  them  com 
ing  and  going,  coming  and  going.  One  year 
it's  light  pictures,  another  it's  dark.  The  public 
is  a  woman.  What  fashion  dictates  to  a  woman 
she  scrupulously  follows.  She  sports  bonnets 
one  decade,  big  picture  hats  the  next.  So,  the 
public  that  loves  art  —  or  thinks  it  loves  art. 
It  used  to  be  the  Hudson  River  school.  And 
then  Chase  and  those  landscape  fellows  came 
over  from  Europe,  where  they  got  a  lot  of  new 
fangled  notions.  Do  you  remember  Eastman 
Johnson?  He  was  my  man  for  years.  Do  you 
remember  the  Fortuny  craze?  His  Gamblers, 
250 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

some  figures  sitting  on  the  grass?  Well,  sir, 
seventeen  thousand  dollars  that  canvas  fetched. 
Big  price  for  forty-odd  years  ago.  Bang  up  ?  Of 
course.  Meissonier,  Bouguereau,  and  Detaille 
came  in.  We  couldn't  sell  them  fast  enough. 
I  guess  the  picture  counterfeiters'  factories  up 
on  Montmartre  were  kept  busy  those  times. 
It  was  after  our  Civil  War.  There  were  a  lot 
of  mushroom  millionaires  who  couldn't  tell  a 
chromo  from  a  Gerome.  Those  were  the  chaps 
we  liked.  I  often  began  with:  'Ten  thou 
sand  dollars  —  who  offers  me  ten  thousand 
dollars  for  this  magnificent  Munkaczy?'  Now 
adays  I  couldn't  give  away  Munkaczy  as  a  pres 
ent.  He  is  too  black.  Our  people  ask  for  flash 
ing  colours.  Rainbows.  Fireworks.  The  new 
school?  Yes,  I'm  free  to  admit  that  the  Bar- 
bizon  men  have  had  their  day.  Mind  you, 
I  don't  claim  they  are  falling  off.  A  few  seasons 
ago  a  Troyon  held  its  own  against  any  Manet 
you  put  up.  But  the  1830  chaps  are  scarcer 
in  the  market,  and  the  picture  cranks  are  be 
ginning  to  tire  of  the  dull  greys,  soft  blues,  and 
sober  skies.  The  Barbizons  drove  out  Meis 
sonier  and  his  crowd.  Then  Monet  and  the 
Impressionists  sent  the  Barbizons  to  the  wall. 
I  tell  you  the  public  is  a  woman.  It  craves 
novelty.  What's  that?  Interested  in  the 
greater  truth  of  Post-Impressionism?  Excuse 
me,  my  dear  sir,  but  that's  pure  rot.  The 
public  doesn't  give  a  hang  for  technique.  It 
wants  a  change.  Indeed  ?  Really  ?  They  have 
251 


LITTLE  MIRRORS   OF  SINCERITY 

made  a  success,  those  young  whippersnappers, 
the  Cubists.  Such  cubs !  Well,  I'm  not  sur 
prised.  Perhaps  our  public  is  tiring  of  the 
Academy.  Perhaps  young  American  painters 
may  get  their  dues  —  some  day.  We  may 
even  export  them.  I've  been  an  art  auctioneer 
man  and  boy  over  fifty  years,  and  I  tell  you 
again  the  public  is  a  woman.  One  year  it's 
dark  paint,  another  it's  light.  Bonnets  or 
hats.  Silks  or  satins.  Lean  or  stout.  All  right. 
Coming  —  coming ! "  Clearing  his  throat,  the 
old  auctioneer  slowly  moves  away. 

THE  JOY  OF  STARING 

Watch  the  mob.  Watch  it  staring.  Like 
cattle  behind  the  rails  which  bar  a  fat  green 
field  they  pass  at  leisure,  ruminating,  or  its 
equivalent,  gum-chewing,  passing  masterpiece 
after  masterpiece,  only  to  let  their  gaze  joyfully 
light  upon  some  silly  canvas  depicting  a  thrice- 
stupid  anecdote.  The  socialists  assure  us  that 
the  herd  is  the  ideal  of  the  future.  We  must 
think,  see,  feel  with  the  People.  Our  brethren ! 
Mighty  idea  —  but  a  stale  one  before  Noah 
entered  the  ark.  "Let  us  go  to  the  people," 
cried  Tolstoy.  But  we  are  the  people.  How 
can  we  go  to  a  place  when  we  are  already  there  ? 
And  the  people  surge  before  a  picture  which 
represents  an  old  woman  kissing  her  cow.  Or, 
standing  with  eyeballs  agog,  they  count  the 
metal  buttons  on  the  coat  of  the  Meissonier 
252 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

Cuirassier.  It  is  great  art.  Let  the  public  be 
educated.  Down  with  the  new  realism  —  which 
only  recalls  to  us  the  bitterness  and  meanness 
of  our  mediocre  existence.  (Are  we  not  all 
middle-class?)  How,  then,  can  art  be  aristo 
cratic  ?  Why  art  at  all  ?  Give  us  the  cinemat 
ograph  —  pictures  that  act.  Squeaking  records. 
Canned  vocally,  Caruso  is  worth  a  wilderness 
of  Wagner  monkeys.  Or  self-playing  unmusical 
machines.  Or  chromos.  Therefore,  let  us  joy 
fully  stare.  Instead  of  your  "step,"  watch 
the  mob. 

A  DILETTANTE 

He  is  a  little  old  fellow,  with  a  slight  glaze 
over  the  pupils  of  his  eyes.  He  is  never  dressed 
in  the  height  of  the  fashion,  yet,  when  he  enters 
a  gallery,  salesmen  make  an  involuntary  step 
in  his  direction;  then  they  get  to  cover  as 
speedily  as  possible,  grumbling:  "Look  out!  it's 
only  the  old  bird  again."  But  one  of  them  is 
always  nailed;  there  is  no  escaping  the  Bar 
mecide.  He  thinks  he  knows  more  about  etch 
ings  than  Kennedy  or  Keppel,  and  when  Mont- 
ross  and  Macbeth  tell  him  of  American  art, 
he  violently  contradicts  them.  He  is  the  em 
bittered  dilettante;  embittered,  because  with 
his  moderate  means  he  can  never  hope  to  own 
even  the  most  insignificant  of  the  treasures 
exposed  under  his  eyes  every  day,  week,  and 
month  in  the  year.  So  he  rails  at  the  dealers, 
253 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

inveighs  against  the  artists,  and  haunts  auction- 
rooms.  He  never  bids,  but  is  extremely  solici 
tous  about  the  purchases  of  other  people.  He 
has  been  known  to  sit  for  hours  on  a  small  print, 
until,  in  despair,  the  owner  leaves.  Then,  with 
infinite  precautions,  our  amateur  arises,  so  con 
triving  matters  that  his  hard-won  victory  is 
not  discovered  by  profane  and  prying  eyes. 
Once  at  home,  he  gloats  over  his  prize,  showing 
it  to  a  favoured  few.  He  bought  it.  He  selected 
it.  It  is  a  tribute  to  his  exquisite  taste.  And 
the  listeners  are  beaten  into  dismayed  silence 
by  his  vociferations,  by  his  agile,  ape-like  skip- 
pings  and  parrot  ejaculations.  Withal,  he  is 
not  a  criminal,  only  a  monomaniac  of  art.  He 
sometimes  mistakes  a  Whistler  for  a  Diirer; 
but  he  puts  the  blame  upon  his  defective  eye 
sight. 

THE  CITY  OF  BROTHERLY  NOISE 

Philadelphia  is  the  noisiest  city  in  North 
America.  If  you  walk  about  any  of  the  narrow 
streets  of  this  cold-storage  abode  of  Brotherly 
Love  you  will  soon  see  tottering  on  its  legs  the 
venerable  New  York  joke  concerning  the  ceme 
tery-like  stillness  of  the  abode  of  brotherly 
love.  Over  there  the  nerve  shock  is  ultra- 
dynamic.  As  for  sleep,  it  is  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  Why,  then,  will  ask  the  puzzled  student 
of  national  life,  does  the  venerable  witticism 
persist  in  living?  The  answer  is  that  in  the 
254 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

United  States  a  truth  promulgated  a  century 
ago  never  dies.  We  are  a  race  of  humourists. 
Noise-breeding  trolley-cars,  constricted  streets 
that  vibrate  with  the  clangour  of  the  loosely 
jointed  machinery,  an  army  of  carts  and  the 
cries  of  vegetable  venders,  a  multitude  of  jos 
tling  people  making  for  the  ferries  on  the  Dela 
ware  or  the  bridges  on  the  Schuylkill  rivers, 
together  with  the  hum  of  vast  manufactories, 
all  these  and  a  thousand  other  things  place 
New  York  in  a  more  modest  category;  in  reality 
our  own  city  emits  few  pipes  in  comparison 
with  the  City  of  Brotherly  Noise  which  sprawls 
over  the  map  of  Pennsylvania.  Yet  it  is  called 
dead  and  moss-grown.  The  antique  joke 
flourishes  the  world  over;  in  Philadelphia  it  is 
stunned  by  the  welter  and  crush  of  life  and 
politics.  Oscar  Hammerstein  first  crossed  the 
Rubicon  of  Market  Street.  The  mountain  of 
" society"  was  forced  to  go  northward  to  this 
Mahomet  of  operatic  music;  else  forego  Richard 
Strauss,  Debussy,  Massenet,  Mary  Garden, 
and  Oscar's  famous  head-tile.  What  a  feat  to 
boast  of !  For  hundreds  of  years  Market  Street 
had  been  the  balking-line  of  supernice  Phila- 
delphians.  Above  the  delectable  region  north 
of  the  City  Hall  and  Penn's  statue  was  Cim 
merian  darkness.  Hammerstein,  with  his  opera 
company,  accomplished  the  miracle.  Perfectly 
proper  persons  now  say  "Girard  Avenue"  or 
" Spring  Garden"  without  blushing,  because 
of  their  increased  knowledge  of  municipal 
255 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

topography.  Society  trooped  northward.  Mo 
tor-cars  from  Rittenhouse  Square  were  seen 
near  Poplar  Street.  Philadelphia  boasts  a 
much  superior  culture  in  the  crustacean  line. 
The  best  fried  oysters  in  the  world  are  to  be 
found  there.  Terrapin  is  the  local  god.  And 
Dennis  McGowan  of  Sansom  Street  hangs  his 
banners  on  the  outer  walls;  within,  red-snapper 
soup  and  deviled  crabs  make  the  heart  grow 
fonder. 

The  difference  in  the  handling  of  the  social 
"hammer"  between  Philadelphia  and  New 
York,  or  Boston  and  Philadelphia,  may  be 
thus  illustrated:  At  the  clubs  in  Philadelphia 
they  say:  "Dabs  is  going  fast.  Pity  he  drinks. 
Did  you  see  the  seven  cocktails  he  got  away 
with  before  dinner  last  night  ? ' '  In  B  os ton  they 
say:  "Dabs  is  quite  hopeless.  This  afternoon 
he  mixed  up  Botticelli  with  Botticini.  Of 
course,  after  that — !"  Now,  in  New  York,  we 
usually  dismiss  the  case  in  this  fashion:  "Dabs 
went  smash  this  morning.  The  limit !  Serves 
the  idiot  right.  He  never  would  take  proper 
tips."  Here  are  certain  social  characteristics  of 
three  cities  set  forth  by  kindly  disposed  club 
men.  As  the  Chinese  say:  An  image-maker 
never  worships  his  idols.  We  prefer  the  Cam 
bodian  sage  who  remarked:  "In  hell,  it's  bad 
form  to  harp  on  the  heat." 


256 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 


THE  SOCIALIST 

The  socialist  is  not  always  sociable.  Nor  is 
there  any  reason  why  he  should  be.  He  usually 
brings  into  whatever  company  he  frequents 
his  little  pailful  of  theories  and  dumps  them 
willy-nilly  on  the  carpet  of  conversation.  He 
enacts  the  eternal  farce  of  equality  for  all, 
justice  for  none.  The  mob,  not  the  individual, 
is  his  shibboleth.  Yet  he  is  the  first  to  resent 
any  tap  on  his  shoulder  in  the  way  of  personal 
criticism.  He  has  been  in  existence  since  the 
coral  atoll  was  constructed  by  that  tiny,  busy, 
gregarious  creature,  and  in  the  final  cosmic 
flare-up  he  will  vanish  in  company  with  his 
fellow  man.  He  is  nothing  if  not  collective. 
His  books,  written  in  his  own  tongue,  are  trans 
lated  into  every  living  language  except  sound 
English,  which  is  inimical  to  jargon.  If  his 
communal  dreams  could  come  true  he  would 
charge  his  neighbour  with  cheating  above  his 
position;  being  a  reformer,  the  fire  of  envy 
brightly  burns  in  his  belly  —  a  sinister  confla 
gration  akin  to  that  of  Ram  Dass  (see  Carlyle). 
In  the  thick  twilight  of  his  reason  he  vaguely 
wanders,  reading  every  new  book  about  so 
cialism  till  his  confusion  grows  apace  and  is 
thrice  confounded.  From  ignorance  to  ar 
rogance  is  but  a  step.  At  the  rich  table  of  life, 
groaning  with  good  things,  he  turns  away,  pre 
ferring  to  chew  the  dry  cud  of  self-satisfaction. 
257 


LITTLE  MIRRORS   OF  SINCERITY 

He  would  commit  Barmecide  rather  than  sur 
render  his  theory  of  the  " unearned  increment." 
He  calls  Shaw  and  Wells  traitors  because  they 
see  the  humorous  side  of  their  doctrines  and, 
occasionally,  make  mock  of  them.  The  varieties 
of  lady  socialists  are  too  numerous  to  study. 
It  may  be  said  of  them,  without  fear  of  being 
polite,  that  females  rush  in  where  fools  fear  to 
tread.  But,  then,  the  woman  who  hesitates  — 
usually  gets  married. 

THE  CRITIC  WHO   GOSSIPS 

He  has  a  soul  like  a  Persian  rug.  Many- 
coloured  are  his  ways,  his  speech.  He  delights 
in  alliteration  of  colours,  and  avails  himself  of 
it  when  he  dips  pen  into  ink.  He  is  fond  of 
confusing  the  technical  terms  of  the  Seven 
Arts,  writing  that  "stuffing  the  ballot-box  is 
no  greater  crime  than  constipated  harmonics." 
But  what  he  doesn't  know  is  that  such  expres 
sions  as  gamut  of  colours,  scales,  harmonies, 
tonal  values  belong  to  the  art  of  painting,  and 
not  alone  to  music.  He  is  fonder  of  anecdote 
and  gossip  than  of  history.  But  what's  the  use ! 
You  can't  carve  rotten  wood.  Our  critic  will 
quote  for  you,  with  his  gimlet  eye  of  a  specialist 
boring  into  your  own,  the  story  which  was  whis 
pered  to  Anthony  Trollope  (in  1857,  please 
don't  forget)  if  he  would  be  so  kind  (it  was  at 
the  Uffizi  Galleries,  Florence)  as  to  show  him 
the  way  to  the  Medical  Venus.  This  is  marvel- 

258 


LITTLE  MIRRORS   OF  SINCERITY 

lous  humour,  and  worth  a  ton  of  critical 
comment  (which,  by  Apollo!  it  be).  But,  as 
Baudelaire  puts  it:  " Nations,  like  families, 
produce  great  men  against  their  will";  and  our 
critic  is  " produced,"  not  made.  In  the  realm 
of  the  blind,  the  cock-eyed  is  king.  The  critic 
is  said  to  be  the  most  necessary  nuisance  — 
after  women  —  in  this  " movie"  world  of  ours. 
But  all  human  beings  are  critics,  aren't  they? 

THE  MOCK  PSYCHIATRIST 

If  for  the  dog  the  world  is  a  smell,  for  the 
eagle  a  picture,  for  the  politician  a  Nibelung 
hoard,  then  for  the  psychiatrist  life  is  a  huge, 
throbbing  nerve.  He  dislikes,  naturally,  the 
antivivisectionists,  but  enjoys  the  moral  vivi 
section  of  his  fellow  creatures.  It's  a  mad 
world  for  him,  my  masters !  And  if  your  ears 
taper  at  the  top,  beware !  You  have  the  morals 
of  a  faun;  or,  if  your  arms  be  lengthy,  you  are 
a  reversion  to  a  prehistoric  type.  The  only 
things  that  are  never  too  long,  for  our  friend 
the  " expert"  of  rare  phobias,  are  his  bills  and 
the  length  of  his  notice  in  the  newspapers.  If 
he  agrees  with  Charles  Lamb  that  Adam  and 
Eve  in  Milton's  Paradise  behave  too  much 
like  married  people,  he  quickly  resents  any 
tracing  of  a  religion  to  an  instinct  or  a  percep 
tion.  He  maintains  that  religious  feeling  is 
only  "a  mode  of  reaction,"  and  our  conscience 
but  a  readjusting  apparatus.  His  trump-card 
259 


LITTLE  MIRRORS  OF  SINCERITY 

is  the  abnormal  case,  and  if  he  can  catch  trip 
ping  a  musician,  a  poet,  a  painter,  he  is 
professionally  happy.  Homer  nodded.  Shake 
speare  plagiarised.  Beethoven  drank.  Mozart 
liked  his  wife's  sister.  Chopin  coughed.  Turner 
was  immoral.  Wagner,  a  little  how-come-ye- 
so!  Hurray!  Cracked  souls,  and  a  Donny- 
brook  Fair  of  the  emotions.  The  psychiatrist 
can  diagnose  anything  from  rum- thirst  to  sudden 
death.  Nevertheless,  in  his  endeavour  to  as 
sume  the  outward  appearance  of  a  veritable 
man  of  science,  the  psychiatrist  reminds  one 
of  the  hermit-crab  as  described  in  E.  H.  Ban- 
field's  Confessions  of  a  Beach  Comber  (p.  132). 
"The  disinterested  spectator,"  remarks  Pro 
fessor  Banfield,  "may  smile  at  the  vain,  yet 
frantically  anxious  efforts  of  the  hermit-crab 
to  coax  his  flabby  rear  into  a  shell  obviously  a 
flattering  misfit;  but  it  is  not  a  smiling  matter 
to  him.  Not  until  he  has  exhausted  a  pro 
gramme  of  ingenious  attitudes  and  comic  con 
tortions  is  the  attempt  to  stow  away  a  No.  8 
tail  in  a  No.  5  shell  abandoned."  The  mock 
psychiatrist  is  the  hermit-crab  of  psychology. 
And  of  the  living  he  has  never  been  known  to 
speak  a  word  of  praise. 


260 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE 
MOORE 


DEAR  naughty  George  Moore  — sad,  bad, 
mad  —  has  reformed.  He  tells  us  why  in  his 
book,  Vale,  the  English  edition  of  which  I  was 
lucky  enough  to  read;  for,  the  American  edi 
tion  is  expurgated,  nay,  fumigated,  as  was  the 
Memoirs  of  My  Dead  Life  by  the  same  Celtic 
Casanova.  Vale  completes  the  trilogy;  Hail 
and  Farewell,  Ave  and  Salve  being  the  titles 
of  the  preceding  two.  In  the  first,  Moore  is 
sufficiently  vitriolic,  and  in  Salve  he  serves 
up  George  Russell,  the  poet  and  painter,  better 
known  as  "^E."  in  a  more  sympathetic  fashion. 
When  Vale  was  announced  several  years  ago 
as  on  the  brink  of  completion  I  was  moved  to 
write:  "I  suppose  when  the  final  book  appears 
it  means  that  George  Moore  has  put  up  the 
shutters  of  his  soul,  not  to  say,  his  shop.  But 
I  have  my  serious  doubts."  After  reading 
Vale  I  still  had  them.  Only  death  will  end  the 
streaming  confessions  of  this  writer.  He  who 
lives  by  the  pen  shall  perish  by  the  pen.  (This 
latter  sentence  is  not  a  quotation  from  the 
261 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

sacred  books  of  any  creed,  merely  the  convic 
tion  of  a  slave  chained  to  the  ink-well.) 

I  said  that  Vale  is  expurgated  for  American 
consumption.  Certainly.  We  are  so  averse 
to  racy,  forcible  English  in  America  —  thanks 
to  the  mean,  narrow  spirit  in  our  arts  and  letters 
-  that  a  hearty  oath  scares  us  into  the  Brook 
lyn  backyard  of  our  timid  conscience.  George 
calls  a  spade  a  spade,  and  he  delights  on  stirring 
up  rank  malodorous  soil  with  his  war-worn 
agricultural  implement.  When  he  returned 
some  years  ago  to  Dublin,  there  to  help  in  the 
national  literary  and  artistic  movement,  he 
found  a  devoted  band  of  brethren:  William 
Butler  Yeats,  Lady  Gregory,  Douglas  Hyde, 
John  M.  Synge,  Edward  Martyn,  Russell,  and 
others. 

I  shan't  attempt  even  a  brief  mention  of  the 
neo-Celtic  awakening.  Yeats  was  the  prime 
instigator,  also  the  storm-centre.  He  literally 
discovered  Synge,  the  dramatist  —  in  reality 
the  only  strong  man  of  the  group,  the  only 
dramatist  of  originality  —  and,  with  his  ex 
quisite  lyric  gift,  he,  also  discovered  a  new  Ire 
land,  a  fabulous,  beautiful  Erin,  unsuspected 
by  Tom  Moore,  Samuel  Lover,  Carleton, 
Mangan,  Lever,  and  the  too  busy  Boucicault. 

As  I  soon  found  out,  when  there,  Dublin  is 
a  vast  whispering  gallery.  Delightful,  hos 
pitable  Dublin  is  also  a  provincial  town,  given 
to  gossip  and  backbiting.  Say  something  about 
somebody  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  Shel- 
262 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

bourne,  and  a  few  hours  later  the  clubs  will 
be  repeating  it.  Mr.  Moore  said  things  every 
hour  in  the  day,  and  in  less  than  six  days  he 
had  sown  for  himself  a  fine  crop  of  enemies. 
To  "get  even"  he  conceived  the  idea  of  writing 
a  series  of  novels,  with  real  people  bearing 
their  own  names.  That  he  hasn't  been  shot 
at,  horsewhipped,  or  sued  for  libel  thus  far  is 
just  his  usual  good  luck.  Vale  is  largely  a  book 
of  capricious  insults. 

But  then  the  facts  it  sets  down  in  cruel  type ! 
When  the  years  have  removed  the  actors  there 
in  from  the  earthly  scene,  our  grandchildren 
will  chuckle  over  Moore's  unconscious  humour 
and  Pepys-like  chronicling  of  small-beer.  For 
the  social  historian  this  trilogy  will  prove  a 
mine  of  gossip,  rich  veracious  gossip.  It  throws 
a  calcium  glare  on  the  soul  of  the  author, 
who,  self-confessed,  is  now  old,  and  no  longer 
a  dangerous  Don  Juan.  In  real  life  he  was, 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  not  particularly) 
a  monster  of  iniquity;  but,  oh!  in  his  Con-* 
fessions  and  Memoirs  what  a  rake  was  he. 
How  the  " lascivious  lute"  did  sound.  Some 
of  the  pages  of  the  new  volume  (see  pp.  274- 
278,  English  edition),  in  which  he  describes  his 
tactics  to  avoid  a  kiss  (kissing  gives  him  a  head 
ache  in  these  lonesome  latter  years,  though  he 
was  only  born  in  1857),  is  to  set  you  wonder 
ing  over  the  frankness  of  the  man.  Walter 
Pater  once  called  him  "  audacious  George 
Moore,"  and  audacious  he  is  with  pen  and  ink. 
263 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

Otherwise,  like  Bernard  Shaw,  he  is  not  look 
ing  for  physical  quarrels. 

He  once  spoke  of  Shaw  as  "the  funny  man  in 
a  boarding-house,"  though  he  never  mentions 
his  name  in  his  memoirs.  He  doesn't  like 
Yeats;  what's  more,  he  prints  the  news  as 
often  and  as  elaborately  as  possible.  In  the 
present  book  he  doesn't  exactly  compare  Yeats 
to  a  crane  or  a  pelican,  but  he  calls  attention 
to  the  fact  that  the  poet  belonged  to  the  "  lower 
middle-class."  It  seems  that  Yeats  had  been 
thundering  away  at  the  artistic  indifference 
of  the  Dublin  bourgeoisie.  Now,  looking  at 
Yeats  the  night  when  John  Quinn  gave  him  a 
dinner  at  Delmonico's,  you  could  not  note 
any  resemblance  to  exotic  birds,  though  he 
might  recall  a  penguin.  He  was  very  solemn, 
very  bored,  very  fatigued,  his  eyes  deep  sunken 
from  fatigue.  Posing  as  a  tame  parlour  poet 
for  six  weeks  had  tired  the  man  to  his  very 
bones.  But  catch  him  in  private  with  his  waist 
coat  unbuttoned  —  I  speak  figuratively  —  and 
you  will  enjoy  a  born  raconteur,  one  who  slowly 
distils  witty  poison  at  the  tip  of  every  anecdote, 
till,  bursting  with  glee,  you  cry:  "How  these 
literary  men  do  love  each  other!  How  one 
Irishman  dotes  on  another!"  Yeats  may  be 
an  exception  to  the  rule  that  a  poet  is  as  vain 
and  as  irritable  as  a  tenor.  I  didn't  notice  the 
irritability,  finding  him  taking  himself  seriously, 
as  should  all  apostles  of  culture  and  Celtic 
twilight. 

264 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

He  "got  even"  with  George  Moore's  virulent 
attacks  by  telling  a  capital  story,  which  he 
confessed  was  invented,  one  that  went  all  over 
Dublin  and  London.  When  George  felt  the 
call  of  a  Protestant  conversion  he  was  in  Dublin. 
He  has  told  us  of  his  difficulties,  mental  and 
temperamental.  One  day  some  question  of 
dogma  presented  itself  and  he  hurried  to  the 
Cathedral  for  advice.  He  sent  in  his  name  to 
the  Archbishop,  and  that  forgetful  dignitary 
exclaimed:  " Moore,  Moore,  oh,  that  man 
again !  Well,  give  him  another  pair  of  blankets." 
In  later  versions,  coals,  candles,  even  shillings, 
were  added  to  the  apocryphal  anecdote  — 
which,  by  the  way,  set  smiling  the  usually  im 
passive  Moore,  who  can  see  a  joke  every  now 
and  then. 

Better  still  is  the  true  tale  of  George,  who 
boasts  much  in  Vale  of  his  riding  dangerous 
mounts;  and  when  challenged  at  an  English 
country  house  did  get  on  the  back  of  a  vicious 
animal  and  ride  to  hounds  the  better  part  of 
a  day.  He  wouldn't,  quite  properly,  take  the 
"dare,"  although  when  he  reached  his  room  he 
found  his  boots  full  of  blood.  So  there  is  sport 
ing  temper  in  him.  Any  one  reading  his  Esther 
Waters  may  note  that  he  knows  the  racing  sta 
ble  by  heart.  In  Vale  he  describes  his  father's 
stable  at  Castle  Moore,  County  Mayo. 

Of  course,  this  is  not  the  time  to  attempt  an 
estimate  of  his  complete  work,  for  who  may 
say  what  fresh  outbursts,  what  new  impru- 
265 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

dences  in  black  and  white,  we  may  expect? 
He  has  paid  his  respects  to  his  fellow  country 
men,  and  is  heartily  despised  by  all  camps, 
political,  religious,  artistic.  He  has  belittled 
the  work  of  Lady  Gregory,  Yeats,  and  Edwin 
Martyn,  and  has  rather  patronised  John  M. 
Synge;  the  latter,  possibly,  because  Synge 
was  "discovered"  by  Yeats,  not  Moore.  Yet 
do  we  enjoy  the  vagaries  of  George  Moore.  I 
only  saw  him  once,  a  long  time  ago,  to  be  pre 
cise  in  1901,  at  Bayreuth.  He  looked  more 
like  a  bird  than  Yeats,  though  his  beak  is  not 
so  predaceous  as  Yeats's;  a  golden-crested  bird, 
with  a  chin  as  diffident  as  a  poached  egg,  and 
with  melancholy  pale-blue  eyes,  and  an  unde 
cided  gait.  He  talked  of  the  Irish  language  as 
if  it  were  the  only  redemption  for  poor  un 
happy  Ireland.  In  Vale  there  is  not  the  same 
enthusiasm.  He  dwells  with  more  delight  on 
his  early  Parisian  experiences  —  it  is  the  best 
part  of  the  book  —  and  to  my  way  of  thinking 
the  essential  George  Moore  is  to  be  found  only 
in  Paris;  London  is  an  afterthought.  The 
Paris  of  Manet,  Monet,  Degas,  Whistler,  Huys- 
mans,  Zola,  Verlaine,  and  all  the  "new"  men 
of  1880  —  what  an  unexplored  vein  he  did 
work  for  the  profit  and  delectation  of  the  Eng 
lish-speaking  world.  True  critical  yeoman's 
work,  for  to  preach  impressionism  twenty- 
five  years  ago  in  London  was  to  court  a  rumpus. 
What  hard  names  were  rained  upon  the  yellow 
head  of  George  Moore  —  that  colour  so  ad- 
266 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

mired  by  Manet  and  so  wonderfully  painted 
by  him  —  in  the  academic  camp.  He  replied 
with  all  the  vivacity  of  vocabulary  which  your 
true  Celt  usually  has  on  tap.  He  even  "went 
for"  the  Pre-Raphaelites,  a  band  of  overrated 
mediocrities  —  on  the  pictorial  side,  at  least  — 
though  John  Millais  was  a  talent  —  and  for 
years  was  as  a  solitary  prophet  in  a  city  of 
Philistines.  The  world  caught  up  with  Moore, 
and  to-day  the  shoe  pinches  on  the  other  foot 
—  it  is  George  who  is  a  belated  critic  of  the 
"New  Art"  (most  of  it  as  stale  as  the  Medes 
and  Persians),  and  many  are  the  wordy  bat 
tles  waged  at  the  Cafe  Royal,  London,  when 
Augustus  John  happens  in  of  an  evening  and 
finds  the  author  of  Modern  Painting  denouncing 
Debussy  in  company  with  Matisse  and  other 
Post-Imitators.  Manet,  like  Moore,  is  "old 
hat"  (vieux  chapeau)  for  modern  youth.  It's 
well  to  go  to  bed  not  too  late  in  life,  else  some 
impertinent  youngster  may  cry  aloud:  "What's 
that  venerable  granddaddy  doing  up  at  this 
time  of  night?"  To  each  generation  its  critics. 


In  one  of  his  fulminations  against  Chris 
tianity  Nietzsche  said  that  the  first  and  only 
Christian  died  on  the  cross.  George  Moore 
thinks  otherwise,  at  least  he  gives  a  novel  ver 
sion  of  the  narrative  in  the  synoptic  Gospels. 
267 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

The  Brook  Kerith  is  a  fiction  dealing  with  the 
life  of  Christ.  It  is  a  book  that  will  offend 
the  faithful,  and  one  that  will  not  convince  the 
heterodox.  In  it  George  Moore  sets  forth  his 
ideas  concerning  the  Christ  "myth,"  evoking, 
as  does  Flaubert  in  Salammbo,  a  vanished  land, 
a  vanished  civilisation,  and  in  a  style  that  is 
artistically  beautiful.  Never  has  he  written 
with  such  sustained  power,  intensity  and  no 
bility  of  phrasing,  such  finely  tempered,  mod 
ulated  prose.  It  is  a  rhythmed  prose  which 
first  peeped  forth  in  some  pages  of  Mr.  Moore's 
Evelyn  Innes  when  the  theme  bordered  on  the 
mystical.  Yet  it  is  of  an  essentially  Celtic 
character.  Mysticism  and  Moore  do  not  seem 
bedfellows.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Moore  has  been 
haunted  from  his  first  elaborate  novel,  A 
Drama  in  Muslin,  by  mystic  and  theological 
questions.  A  pagan  by  temperament,  his  soul 
is  the  soul  of  an  Irish  Roman  Catholic.  He  can 
no  more  escape  the  fascinating  ideas  of  faith 
and  salvation  than  did  Huysmans.  (He  has 
taken  exception  to  this  statement  in  an  open 
letter.)  A  realist  at  the  beginning,  he  has 
leaned  of  late  years  heavily  on  the  side  of  the 
spirit.  But  like  Baudelaire,  Barbey  d'Aure- 
villy,  Villiers  de  L'Isle  Adam,  Paul  Verlaine, 
and  Huysmans,  Mr.  Moore  is  one  of  those  sons 
of  Mother  Church  who  give  anxious  pause  to 
his  former  coreligionists.  The  Brook  Kerith 
will  prove  a  formidable  rock  of  offence,  and  it 
may  be  said  that  it  was  on  the  Index  before 
268 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

it  was  written.    And  yet  we  find  in  it  George 
Moore  among  the  prophets. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Moore  has  read  the  critical 
work  of  Professor  Arthur  Drews,  The  Christ 
Myth.  It  is  a  masterpiece  of  destruction. 
There  are  many  books  in  which  Jesus  Christ 
figures.  Ernest  Renan's  Life,  written  in  his 
silky  and  sophisticated  style,  is  no  more  ad 
mired  by  Christians  than  the  cruder  study  by 
Strauss.  After  these  the  deluge,  ending  with 
the  dream  by  the  late  Remy  de  Gourmont, 
Une  Nuit  au  Luxembourg.  And  there  is  the 
brilliant  and  poetic  study  of  Edgar  Saltus, 
his  Mary  Magdalen.  Anatole  France  has 
distilled  into  his  The  Revolt  of  the  Angels 
some  of  his  acid  hatred  of  all  religions,  with 
blasphemous  and  obscene  notes  not  missing. 
It  may  be  remembered  that  M.  France  also 
wrote  that  pastel  of  irony  The  Procurator  of 
Judea,  in  which  Pontius  Pilate  is  shown  in  his 
old  age,  rich,  ennuied,  sick.  He  has  quite  for 
gotten,  when  asked,  about  the  Jewish  agitator 
who  fancied  himself  the  son  of  God  and  was 
given  over  to  the  Temple  authorities  in  Jeru 
salem  and  crucified.  Rising  from  the  tomb  on 
the  third  day  he  became  the  Christ  of  the  Chris 
tian  dispensation,  aided  by  the  religious  genius 
of  one  Paul,  formerly  known  as  Saul  the  Tent- 
maker  of  Tarsus.  Now  Mr.  Moore  does  in  a 
larger  mould  and  in  the  grand  manner  what 
Anatole  France  accomplished  in  his  miniature. 
The  ironic  method,  a  tragic  irony,  suffuses 
269 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

every  page  of  The  Brook  Kerith,  and  the  story 
of  the  four  Gospels  is  twisted  into  something 
perverse,  and  for  Christians  altogether  shock 
ing.  It  will  be  called  "  blasphemous/'  but  we 
must  remember  that  our  national  Constitu 
tion  makes  no  allowance  for  so-called  "  blas 
phemers";  that  the  mythologies  of  the  Greeks 
and  Romans,  Jews  and  Christians,  Mohamme 
dans  and  Mormons  may  be  criticised,  yet  the 
criticism  is  not  inherently  "blasphemous/' 
America  is  no  more  a  Christian  than  a  Jewish 
nation  or  a  nation  of  freethinkers.  It  is  free 
to  all  races  and  religions,  and  thus  one  man's 
spiritual  meat  may  be  another's  emetic. 

Having  cleared  our  mind  of  cant,  let  us  in 
vestigate  The  Brook  Kerith.  The  title  is  ap 
plied  to  a  tiny  community  of  Jewish  mystics, 
the  Essenes,  who  lived  near  this  stream;  per 
haps  the  Scriptural  Kedron?  This  brother 
hood  had  separated  from  the  materialistic 
Pharisees  and  Sadducees,  not  approving  of 
burnt  sacrifices  or  Temple  worship;  further 
more,  they  practised  celibacy  till  a  schism  within 
their  ranks  drove  the  minority  away  from  the 
parent  body  to  shift  for  themselves.  A  young 
shepherd,  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  son  of  Joseph,  a 
carpenter  in  Galilee,  and  of  Miriam,  his  mother 
-  they  have  other  sons  —  is  a  member  of  this 
community.  But  too  much  meditation  on  the 
prophecies  of  Daniel  and  the  meeting  with  a 
wandering  prophet,  John  the  Baptist,  the  pre 
cursor  of  the  long-foretold  Messiah,  lead  him 
270 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

astray.  Baptised  in  the  waters  of  Jordan, 
Jesus  becomes  a  theomaniac  —  he  believes 
himself  to  be  the  son  of  God,  appointed  by  the 
heavenly  father  to  save  mankind;  especially 
his  fellow  Jews.  Filled  with  a  fanatical  fire,  he 
leads  away  a  dozen  disciples,  poor,  ignorant 
fishermen.  He  also  attracts  the  curiosity  of 
Joseph,  the  only  son  of  a  rich  merchant  of 
Arimathea.  Two-thirds  of  the  novel  are  de 
voted  to  the  psychology  of  this  youthful  phi 
losopher,  who,  inducted  into  the  wisdom  of  the 
Greek  sophists,  is,  notwithstanding,  a  fervent 
Jew,  a  rigid  upholder  of  the  Law  and  the  Proph 
ets.  The  dialogues  between  father  and  son 
rather  recall  Erin,  hardly  Syria.  Joseph  be 
comes  interested  in  Jesus,  follows  him  about,  and 
the  fatal  day  of  the  crucifixion  he  beseeches  his 
friend  Pilate  to  let  him  have  the  body  of  his 
Lord  for  a  worthy  interment.  Pilate  demurs, 
then  accedes.  Joseph,  with  the  aid  of  the  two 
holy  women  Mary  and  Martha,  places  the  corpse 
of  the  dead  divinity  in  a  sepulchre. 

If  Joseph  hadn't  been  killed  by  the  zealots 
of  Jerusalem  (heated  to  this  murder  by  the 
High  Priest)  the  title  of  the  book  might  have 
been  "  Joseph  of  Arimathea."  He  is  easily  the 
most  viable  figure.  Jesus  is  too  much  of  the  god 
from  the  machine;  but  he  serves  the  author  for 
the  development  of  his  ingenious  theory.  Find 
ing  the  Christ  still  alive,  Joseph  carries  him  se 
cretly  and  after  dark  to  the  house  of  his  father, 
hides  him  and  listens  unmoved  to  the  fantastic 
271 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

tales  of  a  resurrection.  But  the  spies  of  Caia- 
phas  are  everywhere,  Jesus  is  in  danger  of  a  sec 
ond  crucifixion,  so  Joseph  takes  him  back  to  the 
Essenes,  where  he  resumes  his  old  occupation 
of  herding  sheep.  Feeble  in  mind  and  body, 
he  gradually  wins  back  health  and  spiritual 
peace.  He  regrets  his  former  arrogance  and 
blasphemy  and  ascribes  the  aberration  to  the 
insidious  temptings  of  the  demon.  It  seems 
that  in  those  troubled  days  the  cities  and  coun 
tryside  were  infested  by  madmen,  messiahs, 
redeemers,  preaching  the  speedy  destruction 
of  the  world.  For  a  period  Jesus  called  himself 
a  son  of  God  and  threatened  his  fellow  men 
with  fire  and  the  sword. 

Till  he  was  five  and  fifty  years  Jesus  lived 
with  his  flocks.  The  idyllic  pictures  are  in  Mr. 
Moore's  most  charming  vein;  sober,  as  befits 
the  dignity  of  the  theme.  He  has  fashioned 
an  undulating  prose,  each  paragraph  a  page 
long,  which  flows  with  some  of  the  clarity  and 
music  of  a  style  once  derided  by  him,  the  style 
coulant  of  that  master  of  harmonies,  Cardinal 
Newman.  He  is  a  great  landscape-painter. 

Jesus  is  aging.  He  gives  up  his  shepherd's 
crook  to  his  successor  and  contemplates  a  re 
treat  where  he  may  meditate  the  thrilling  events 
of  his  youth.  Then  Paul  of  Tarsus  intervenes. 
He  is  vigorously  painted.  A  refugee  from  Jeru 
salem,  with  Timothy  lost  somewhere  in  Galilee, 
he  invades  the  Essenian  monastery.  Eloquent 
pages  follow.  Paul  relates  his  adventures  under 
272 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

the  banner  of  Jesus  Christ.  A  disputatious 
man,  full  of  the  Lord,  yet  not  making  it  any 
easier  for  his  disciples.  You  catch  a  glimpse 
of  Pauline  Christianity,  differing  from  the 
tender  message  of  Jesus;  that  Jesus  of  whom 
Havelock  Ellis  wrote:  "Jesus  found  no  suc 
cessor.  Over  the  stage  of  those  gracious  and 
radiant  scenes  swiftly  fell  a  fireproof  curtain, 
wrought  of  systematic  theology  and  formal 
metaphysics,  which  even  the  divine  flames  of 
that  wonderful  personality  were  unable  to 
melt." 

If  this  be  the  case  then  Paul  was,  if  not  the 
founder,  the  foster-father  of  the  new  creed. 
A  seer  of  epileptic  visions  —  Edgar  Saltus  has 
said  of  the  "sacred  disease"  that  all  founders 
of  religions  have  been  epileptics  —  Paul,  with 
the  intractable  temperament  of  a  stubborn 
Pharisee,  was  softened  by  some  Greek  blood, 
yet  as  Renan  wrote  of  Amiel:  "He  speaks  of 
sin,  of  salvation,  of  redemption  and  conversion, 
and  other  theological  bric-a-brac,  as  if  these 
things  were  realities."  For  Paul  and  those 
who  followed  him  they  were  and  are  realities; 
from  them  is  spun  the  web  of  our  modern  civili 
sation.  The  dismay  of  Paul  on  learning  from 
the  lips  of  Jesus  that  he  it  was  who,  crucified, 
came  back  to  life  may  be  fancy.  The  sturdy 
Apostle,  who  recalled  the  reproachful  words 
of  Jesus  issuing  from  the  blinding  light  on  the 
road  to  Damascus:  "Paul,  Paul,  why  per- 
secutest  thou  me?"  naturally  enough  de- 
273 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

nounced  Jesus  as  a  madman,  but  accepted  his 
services  as  a  guide  to  Caesarea,  where,  in  com 
pany  with  Timothy,  he  hoped  to  embark  for 
Rome,  there  to  spread  the  glad  tidings,  there 
to  preach  the  Gospel  of  Christ  and  Him  cruci 
fied. 

On  the  way  he  cautiously  extracts  from 
Jesus,  whose  memory  of  his  cruel  tormentors 
is  halting,  parts  of  his  story.  He  believes  him 
a  half-crazy  fanatic,  deluded  with  the  notion 
that  he  is  the  original  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  Jesus 
gently  expounds  his  theories,  though  George 
Moore  pulls  the  wires.  A  pantheism  that  ends 
in  Nirvana,  Neant,  Nada,  Nothing !  Despair 
ing  of  ever  forcing  the  world  to  see  the  light, 
he  is  become  a  Quietist,  almost  a  Buddhist. 
He  might  have  quoted  the  mystic  Joachim 
Flora  —  of  the  Third  Kingdom  —  who  said 
that  the  true  ascetic  counts  nothing  his  own 
save  only  his  harp.  ("Qui  vere  monachus  est 
nihil  reputat  esse  suum  nisi  citharam.")  When 
a  man's  cross  becomes  too  heavy  a  burden  to 
carry  then  let  him  cast  it  away.  Jesus  cast 
his  cross  away  —  his  spiritual  ambition  —  be 
lieving  that  too  great  love  of  God  leads  to 
propagation  of  the  belief,  then  to  hatred  and 
persecution  of  them  that  won't  believe. 

The  Jews,  says  Jesus,  are  an  intolerant,  stiff- 
necked  people;  they  love  God,  yet  they  hate 
men.  Horrified  at  all  this,  Paul  parts  company 
with  the  Son  of  Man,  secretly  relieved  to  hear 
that  he  is  not  going,  as  he  had  contemplated, 
274 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

to  give  himself  up  to  Hanan,  the  High  Priest 
in  Jerusalem,  to  denounce  the  falseness  of  the 
heretical  sect  named  after  him.  Paul,  with 
out  crediting  the  story,  saw  in  Jesus  a  dan 
gerous  rival.  The  last  we  hear  of  the  divine 
shepherd  is  a  rumour  that  he  may  join  a  roving 
band  of  East  Indians  and  go  to  the  source  of 
all  beliefs,  to  Asia,  impure,  mysterious  Asia; 
the  mother  of  mystic  cults.  Paul  too  disap 
pears,  and  on  the  little  coda:  "The  rest  of  his 
story  is  unknown."  We  are  fain  to  believe 
that  the  "rest  of  his  story"  is  very  well  known 
in  the  wide  world.  The  book  is  another  mile 
stone  along  Mr.  Moore's  road  to  Damascus. 

If,  as  Charles  Baudelaire  has  said,  "Super 
stition  is  the  reservoir  of  all  truths,"  then,  we 
have  lost  our  spiritual  bearings  in  the  dark 
forest  of  modern  rationalism.  To  be  sure,  we 
have  a  Yankee  Pope  Joan,  a  Messiah  in  petti 
coats  who  has  uttered  the  illuminating  phrase, 
"My  first  and  for  ever  message  is  one  and  eter 
nal,"  which  is  no  more  a  parody  of  Holy  Writ 
than  The  Brook  Kerith,  a  book  which  while 
it  must  have  given  its  author  pains  to  write 
—  so  full  of  Talmudic  and  Oriental  lore  and 
the  lore  of  the  apocryphal  gospels  is  it  —  must 
have  been  also  a  joy  to  him  as  a  literary 
artist.  The  poignant  irony  of  Paul's  disbelief 
in  the  real  Jesus  is  understandable,  though  it 
is  bound  to  raise  a  chorus  of  protestations. 
But  Mr.  Moore  never  worried  over  abuse.  He 
has,  Celt  that  he  is;  followed  his  vision.  In 
275 


REFORMATION  OF  GEORGE  MOORE 

every  man's  heart  there  is  a  lake,  he  says,  and 
the  lake  in  his  heart  is  a  sombre  one,  a  very 
pool  of  incertitudes.  One  feels  like  quoting  to 
him  —  though  it  would  be  unnecessary,  as  he 
knows  well  the  quotation  —  what  Barbey 
d'Aur  evilly  once  wrote  to  Baudelaire,  and  years 
later  of  Joris-Karel  Huysmans,  that  he  would 
either  blow  out  his  brains  or  prostrate  himself 
at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  Mr.  Moore  has  in  the 
past  made  his  genuflections.  But  they  were 
before  the  Jesus  of  his  native  religion;  the 
poetic  though  not  profound  image  he  has  created 
in  his  new  book  will  never  seem  the  godlike 
man  of  whom  Browning  said  in  Saul:  " Shall 
throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee.  See 
the  Christ  stand!" 


276 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
PILLOWLAND 

IN  his  immortal  essay  on  the  "flat  swamp  of 
convalescence"  Charles  Lamb  speaks  from  per 
sonal  experience  of  the  "king-like  way"  the 
sick  man  "sways  his  pillow  —  tumbling,  and 
tossing,  and  shifting,  and  lowering,  and  thump 
ing,  and  flatting,  and  moulding  it,  to  the  ever- 
varying  requisitions  of  his  throbbing  temples. 
He  changes  sides  oftener  than  a  politician." 
How  true  this  is  —  even  to  the  italicised  word 
—  I  discovered  for  myself  after  a  personal  en 
counter  with  the  malignant  Pneumococcus, 
backed  up  by  his  ally,  the  pleurisy.  Such  was 
the  novelty  of  my  first  serious  illness  that  it 
literally  took  my  breath  away.  When  I  re 
covered  my  normal  wind  I  found  myself  mon 
arch  of  all  I  surveyed,  my  kingdom  a  bed,  yet 
seemingly  a  land  without  limit,  —  who  dares 
circumscribe  the  imagination  of  an  invalid? 
As  to  the  truth  of  Mr.  Lamb's  remarks  on 
the  selfishness  of  the  sick  man  there  can  be  no 
denial.  His  pillow  is  his  throne  —  from  it  he 
issues  his  orders  for  the  day,  his  bulletins  for 
the  night.  The  nurse  is  his  prime  minister, 
his  right  hand;  with  her  moral  alliance  he  is 
enabled  to  defy  a  host  of  officious  advisers. 
277 


PILLOWLAND 

But  woe  betide  him  if  nurse  and  spouse  plot 
against  him.  Then  he  is  helpless.  Then  he 
is  past  saving.  His  little  pet  schemes  are  shat 
tered  in  the  making.  He  is  shifted  and  mauled. 
He  is  prodded  and  found  wanting.  No  hope 
for  the  helpless  devil  as  his  face  is  scrubbed, 
his  hands  made  clean,  his  miserable  tangled 
hair  combed  straight.  In  Pillowland  what 
Avatar  ?  None,  alas !  Nevertheless,  your  pillow 
is  your  best  friend,  your  only  confidant.  In 
its  cool  yielding  depths  you  whisper  (yes,  one 
is  reduced  to  an  evasive  whisper,  such  is  the 
cowardice  superinduced  by  physical  weakness) 
"  Bedpans  are  not  for  bedouins.  I'll  have  none 
of  them."  And  then  you  swallow  the  next 
bitter  pill  the  nurse  offers.  Suffering  ennobles, 
wrote  Nietzsche.  I  suppose  he  is  right,  but  in 
my  case  the  nobility  is  yet  to  appear.  Meek, 
terribly  meek,  sickness  makes  one.  You  suffer 
a  sea  change,  and  without  richness.  The  most 
annoying  part  of  the  business  is  that  you  were 
not  consulted  as  to  your  choice  of  maladies; 
worse  remains:  you  are  not  allowed  to  cure 
yourself.  I  loathe  pneumonia,  since  I  came 
to  grips  with  the  beast.  The  next  time  I'll 
go  out  of  my  way  to  select  some  exotic  fever. 
Then  my  doctor  will  be  vastly  intrigued.  I 
had  a  common  or  garden  variety  of  lung  trouble. 
Pooh!  his  eyes  seemed  to  say  —  I  read  their 
meaning  with  the  clairvoyance  of  the  defeated 
—  we  shall  have  this  fellow  on  his  hind-legs  in 
a  jiffy.  And  I  didn't  want  to  get  well  too 
278 


PILLOWLAND 

rapidly.  Like  Saint  Augustine  I  felt  like  praying 
with  a  slight  change  of  text:  "Give  me  chastity 
and  constancy,  but  not  yet."  Give,  I  said  to 
my  doctor,  health,  but  let  me  loaf  a  little  longer. 
Time  takes  toll  of  eternity  and  I've  worked 
my  pen  and  wagged  my  tongue  for  twice  twenty 
years.  I  need  a  rest.  So  do  my  readers.  The 
divine  rights  of  cabbages  and  of  kings  are  also 
shared  by  mere  newspaper  men.  A  litany  of 
massive  phrases  followed.  But  in  vain.  The 
doctor  was  inexorable.  I  had  pneumonia.  My 
temperature  was  tropical.  My  heart  beat  in 
ragtime  rhythm,  and  my  pulse  was  out  of  the 
running.  I  realised  as  I  tried  to  summon  to 
my  parched  lips  my  favourite  "red  lattice 
oaths"  that,  as  Cabanis  put  it  years  ago: 
"Man  is  a  digestive  tube  pierced  at  both  ends." 
All  the  velvet  vanities  of  life  had  vanished. 
I  could  no  longer  think  in  alliterative  sentences. 
Only  walking  delegates  of  ideas  filled  my  hollow 
skull  like  dried  peas  in  a  bladder.  Finally,  I 
"concentrated"  —  as  the  unchristian  unscien- 
tists  say  —  on  the  nurse,  my  nurse. 

As  an  old  reporter  of  things  theatrical  I  had 
seen  many  plays  with  the  trained  nurse  as 
heroine.  One  and  all  I  abhorred  them,  even 
the  gentle  and  artistic  impersonation  of  Mar 
garet  Anglin  in  a  piece  whose  name  I've  for 
gotten.  I  welcomed  a  novel  by  Edgar  Saltus 
in  which  the  nurse  is  depicted  as  a  monster  of 
crime  incarnate.  How  mistaken  I  have  been. 
Now.  the  trained  nurse  seems  an  angel  without 
279 


PILLOWLAND 

wings.  She  may  not  be  the  slender,  dainty, 
blue-eyed,  flaxen-haired  girl  of  the  footlights; 
she  is  often  mature  and  stout  and  a  lover  of 
potatoes.  But  she  is  a  sister  when  a  man  is 
down.  She  is  severe,  but  her  severity  hath 
good  cause.  At  first  you  feebly  utter  the  word 
"  nurse."  Later  she  is  any  Irish  royal  family 
name.  Follows,  "Mary,"  and  that  way  danger 
lies  for  the  elderly  invalid.  When  he  calls  her 
"Marie"  he  is  doomed.  Every  day  the  news 
papers  tell  us  of  marriages  made  in  pillowland 
between  the  well-to-do  widower,  Mr.  A.  Sclerosis, 
and  Miss  Emma  Metic  of  the  Saint  Petronius 
Hospital  staff.  Married  sons  and  daughters 
may  protest,  but  to  no  avail.  A  sentimental 
bachelor  or  widower  in  the  lonesome  latter 
years  hasn't  any  more  chance  with  a  deter 
mined  young  nurse  of  the  unfair  sex  than  a 
"snowbird  in  hell"  —  as  Brother  Mencken 
phrases  it. 

However,  every  nurse  has  her  day.  She 
finally  departs.  Your  eyes  are  wet.  You  are 
weeping  over  yourself.  The  nurse  represented 
not  only  care  for  your  precious  carcass  but 
also  a  surcease  from  the  demands  of  the  world. 
Her  going  means  a  return  to  work,  and  you 
hate  to  work  if  you  are  a  convalescent  of  the 
true-blue  sort.  Hence  your  tears.  But  you 
soon  recover.  You  are  free.  The  doctor  has 
lost  interest  in  your  case.  You  throw  physic 
to  the  dogs.  You  march  at  a  lenten  tempo 
about  your  embattled  bed.  You  begin  sudden 
280 


PILLOWLAND 

little  arguments  with  your  wife,  just  to  see  if 
you  haven't  lost  any  of  your  old-time  virility 
in  the  technique  of  household  squabbling.  You 
haven't.  You  swell  with  masculine  satisfac 
tion  and  for  at  least  five  minutes  you  are  the 
Man  of  the  House.  A  sudden  twinge,  a  mo 
mentary  giddiness,  send  you  scurrying  back  to 
your  bailiwick,  the  bedroom,  and  the  familiar 
leitmotiv  is  once  more  sounded,  and  with  what 
humility  of  accent:  " Mamma!"  The  Eternal 
Masculine?  The  Eternal  Child !  You  mumble 
to  her  that  it  is  nothing,  and  as  you  recline  on 
that  thrice-accursed  couch,  you  endeavour  to 
be  haughty.  But  she  knows  you  are  simply 
a  sick  grumpy  old  person  of  the  male  species 
who  needs  be  ruled  with  a  rod  of  iron,  although 
the  metal  be  well  hidden. 

The  first  cautious  peep  from  a  window  upon 
the  world  you  left  snow  white,  and  find  in  vernal 
green,  is  an  experience  almost  worth  the  miseries 
you  have  so  impatiently  endured.  A  veritable 
vacation  for  the  eyes,  you  tell  yourself,  as  the 
fauna  and  flora  of  Flatbush  break  upon  your 
enraptured  gaze.  Presently  you  watch  with 
breathless  interest  the  manoeuvres  of  ruddy 
little  Georgie  in  the  next  garden  as  he  manfully 
deploys  a  troupe  of  childish  contemporaries, 
his  little  sister  doggedly  traipsing  at  the  rear. 
Sturdy  Georgie  has  the  makings  of  a  leader. 
He  may  be  a  Captain  of  Commerce,  a  Colonel, 
and  Master-politician;  but  he  will  always  be 
foremost,  else  nowhere.  "You  are  the  au- 
281 


PILLOWLAND 

dience,"  he  imperiously  bids  his  companions, 
and  when  rebellion  seemed  imminent  he  punched, 
without  a  trace  of  anger,  a  boy  much  taller. 
I  envied  Georgie  his  abounding  vitality.  Fur 
tively  I  raised  the  window.  Instantly  I  was 
spied  by  Georgie  who  cried  lustily:  "Little 
boy,  little  boy,  come  down  and  play  with  me !" 
I  almost  felt  gay,  "You  come  up  here,"  I  called 
out  with  one  lung.  "I  haven't  a  stepladder," 
he  promptly  replied.  The  fifth  floor  is  as  re 
mote  without  a  ladder  as  age  is  separated  from 
youth.  (Now  I'm  moralising!)  Undismayed, 
Georgie  continued  to  call:  "Little  boy,  little 
boy,  come  down  and  play  with  me ! " 

The  most  disheartening  thing  about  a  first 
sickness  is  the  friend  who  meets  you  and  says: 
"I  never  saw  you  look  better  in  your  life." 
It  may  be  true,  but  he  shouldn't  have  said  it 
so  crudely.  You  renounce  then  and  there  the 
doctor  with  all  his  pomps  of  healing.  You 
refuse  to  become  a  professional  convalescent. 
You  are  cured  and  once  more  a  commonplace 
man,  one  of  the  healthy  herd.  Notwithstanding 
you  feel  secretly  humiliated.  You  are  no  longer 
King  of  Pillowland. 


282 


CHAPTER  XXV 

CROSS-CURRENTS     IN     MODERN 
FRENCH  LITERATURE 


THEY  order  certain  things  better  in  France 
than  elsewhere;  I  mean  such  teasing  and  un 
satisfactory  forms  of  book-making  known  as 
Inquiries  ("Enquete,"  which  is  not  fair  to 
translate  into  the  lugubrious  literalism,  "In 
quest"),  Anthologies,  and  books  that  mas 
querade  as  books,  as  Charles  Lamb  hath  it. 
Without  a  trace  of  pedantry  or  dogmatism, 
such  works  appear  from  time  to  time  in  Paris 
and  are  delightful  reminders  of  the  good  breed 
ing  and  suppleness  of  Gallic  criticism.  To 
turn  to  favour  and  prettiness  a  dusty  depart 
ment  of  literature  is  no  mean  feat. 

What  precisely  is  the  condition  of  French 
letters  since  Catulle  Mendes  published  his 
magisterial  work  on  The  French  Poetic  Move 
ment  from  1867  to  1900?  (Paris,  1903.)  Nothing 
so  exhaustive  has  appeared  since,  though  a 
half-dozen  Inquiries,  Anthologies,  and  Sympo 
siums  are  in  existence. 

The  most  comprehensive  recently  is  Florian- 
Parmentier's  Contemporary  History  of  French 
283  ' 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

Letters  from  1885  to  I9I4-  The  author  is  a 
poet,  one  of  les  Jeunes,  and  an  expert  swimmer 
in  the  multifarious  cross-currents  of  the  day.  His 
book  is  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  map  of  literary 
France  as  far  as  the  beginning  of  the  war.  He 
is  quite  frank  in  his  likes  and  dislikes,  and  al 
ways  has  his  reasons  for  his  major  idolatries 
and  minor  detestations. 

As  a  corrective  to  his  enthusiasm  and  hatreds 
there  are  several  new  Anthologies  at  hand 
which  aid  us  to  form  our  own  opinion  of  the 
younger  men's  prose  and  verse.  And,  finally, 
there  is  the  significant  Inquiry  of  Emile  Hen- 
riot:  "A  Quoi  Revent  les  Jeunes  Gens ? ' '  ( 1 9 1 3) ; 
of  which  more  anon. 

M.  Florian-Parmentier  is  a  native  of  Valen 
ciennes,  a  writer  whose  versatility  and  fecundity 
are  noteworthy  in  a  far  from  barren  literary 
epoch.  He  has,  with  the  facility  of  a  lettered 
young  Frenchman,  tried  his  hand  at  every 
form.  All  themes,  so  they  be  human,  are  wel 
come  to  him,  from  art  criticism  to  playwriting. 
He  is  seemingly  fair  to  his  colleagues.  Per 
haps  they  may  not  admit  this;  but  the  ques 
tion  may  be  answered  in  the  affirmative:  Is 
he  a  safe  critical  guide  in  the  labyrinth  of  latter- 
day  French  letters? 

He  notes,  with  an  unaccustomed  sense  of 
humour  in  a  critical  barometer,  the  tendency 
of  youthful  poets,  prose  penmen,  and  others 
to  form  schools,  to  create  cenacles,  to  begin 
fighting  before  they  have  any  defined  ideal. 
284 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

It  leads  to  a  lot  of  noisy,  explosive  manifestoes, 
declarations,  and  challenges,  most  of  them 
rather  in  the  air;  though  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  these  ebullitions  of  gusty  temperaments 
do  clear  that  same  air,  murky  with  theories 
and  traversed  by  an  occasional  flash  of  genius. 

After  paying  his  respects  to  the  daily  Pari 
sian  press,  which  he  belabours  as  venal,  cynical, 
and  impure,  our  critic  evokes  a  picture  of  the 
condition  of  literary  men;  not  a  reassuring 
one.  Indeed,  we  wonder  how  young  people 
can  dream  of  embracing  such  a  profession, 
with  its  heartaches,  disappointments,  inevita 
ble  poverty.  Unless  these  aspiring  chaps  have 
a  private  income,  how  do  they  contrive  to 
live? 

The  answer  is,  they  don't  live,  unless  they 
write  twaddle  for  the  Grand  Old  Public,  which 
must  be  tickled  with  fluff  and  flattery.  You 
say  to  yourself,  after  all  Paris  is  not  vastly 
different  in  this  respect  from  benighted  New 
York.  Detective  stories,  melodrama,  the  glori 
fication  of  the  stale  triangle  in  fiction  and  drama, 
the  apotheosis  of  the  Apache  —  what  are  all 
these  but  slight  variants  of  the  artistic  pabulum 
furnished  by  our  native  merchants  in  medi 
ocrity?  Consoled,  because  your  mental  and 
emotional  climate  is  not  as  inartistic  as  it  is 
painted,  you  return  to  Florian-Parmentier  and 
his  divagations.  He  has  much  to  say.  Some 
of  it  is  not  as  tender  as  tripe,  but  none  is  salted 
with  absurdity. 

285 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

Then  you  make  a  discovery.  There  is  in 
France  a  distinct  class,  the  Intellectuals,  who 
control  artistic  opinion  because  of  its  superior 
claims;  a  class  to  which  there  is  no  analogy 
either  in  England  or  in  America.  (The  French 
Academy  is  not  particularly  referred  to  just 
now.)  Poets,  journalists,  wealthy  amateurs, 
bohemians,  and  professors  —  all  may  belong 
to  it  if  they  have  the  necessary  credentials: 
brains,  talent,  enthusiasm.  It  is  the  latter 
quality  that  floats  out  on  the  sea  of  speculation 
many  adventuring  barks.  Each  sports  a  tiny 
pennant  proclaiming  its  ideals.  Each  is  steered 
by  some  dreamer  of  proud,  impossible  dreams. 
But  they  float,  do  these  frail  boats,  laden  with 
visions  and  captained  by  noble  ambitions. 

Or,  another  image;  a  long,  narrow  street, 
on  either  side  houses  of  manifold  styles  —  fan 
tastic  or  sensible,  castellated  or  commonplace, 
baroque,  stately,  turreted,  spired,  and  lofty, 
these  eclectic  architectures  reflect  the  souls  of 
the  dwellers  within.  The  ivory  tower  is  not 
missing,  though  a  half-century  ago  it  "was  more 
in  evidence;  the  church  is  there,  though  sadly 
dwarfed  —  France  is  still  spiritually  crippled 
and  flying  on  one  wing  (this  means  previous 
to  1914);  and  a  host  of  other  strange  and  fa 
miliar  houses  that  Jack  the  poet  built. 

On  the  doors  of  each  is  a  legend;   it  may  be 

Neo-Symbolism,     Neo-Classicism,     Free-Verse, 

Sincerism,   Intenseism,    Spiritualists,   Floralism 

or  the  School  of  Grace,  Dramatism  and  Simul- 

286 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

tamsm,  Imperialism,  Dynamism,  Futurism,  Re 
gionalism,  Pluralism,  Sereneism,  Vivantism, 
Magism,  Totalism,  Subsequentism,  Argonauts, 
Wolves,  Visionarism,  and,  most  discussed  of 
all,  Unanimism,  headed  by  that  fiery  propagan 
dist  and  poet,  Jules  Romains. 

Now,  every  one  of  these  cults  in  miniature 
has  its  following,  its  programmes,  sometimes 
its  special  reviews,  monthly  or  weekly.  They 
are  the  numerous  progeny  of  the  elder  Ro 
mantic,  Realistic,  and  Symbolistic  schools, 
long  dead  and  gathered  to  their  fathers. 

Charles  Baudelaire,  from  whose  sonnet  Corre 
spondences  the  Symbolists  dated;  Baudelaire, 
the  precursor  of  so  much  modern,  is  to-day 
chiefly  studied  in  his  prose  writings,  critical 
and  aesthetic.  His  Little  Poems  in  Prose  are 
a  breviary  for  the  youths  who  are  turning  out 
an  amorphous  prose,  which  they  call  Free. 
Paul  Verlaine's  influence  is  still  marked,  for  he 
is  a  maker  of  Debussy-like  music;  moonlit, 
vapourish,  intangible,  subtle,  and  perverse.  The 
very  quintessence  of  poetry  haunts  the  vague 
terrain  of  his  verse;  but  his  ideas,  his  morbidi 
ties,  these  are  negligible,  indeed,  abhorred. 

The  new  schools,  whether  belonging  to  the 
Extreme  Right  or  Extreme  Left,  are  idealistic 
in  their  aim  and  practice;  that  or  nothing. 
The  brutalities  of  Zola  and  the  Naturalistic 
School,  the  frigid  perfection  and  metallic  im 
passibility  of  the  Parnassians  are  over  and 
done  with.  Cynical  cinders  no  longer  blind  the 
287 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

eye  of  the  ideal.  There  is  a  renaissance  of 
sensibility.  The  universe  is  become  pluralistic, 
sentimental  pantheism  is  in  the  air.  Irony 
has  ceased  to  be  a  potent  weapon  in  the  armoury 
of  poets  and  prosateurs.  It  is  replaced  by  an 
ardent  love  of  humanity,  by  a  socialism  that 
weeps  on  the  shoulder  of  one's  neighbour,  by 
a  horror  of  egoism  —  whether  masquerading 
as  a  philosophy  such  as  Nietzsche's,  or  a  poesy 
such  as  the  Parnassians.  For  these  poetlings 
issues  are  cosmical. 

Coeval  with  this  revival  of  sentiment  is  a 
decided  leaning  toward  religion;  not  the  "white 
soul  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  as  Huysmans  would 
say;  not  the  mediaeval  curiosities  of  Hugo, 
Gautier,  Lamartine;  but  the  carrying  aloft 
of  the  banner  of  belief;  the  opposition  to  sterile 
agnosticism  by  the  burning  tongues  of  the 
holy  spirit.  No  dilettante  movement  this 
return  to  Roman  Catholicism.  The  time  came 
for  many  of  these  neophytes  when  they  had 
to  choose  at  the  cross-roads.  Either  —  Or  ? 
The  Button-Moulder  was  lying  in  wait  for  such 
adolescent  Peer  Gynts,  and,  outraged  and 
nauseated  by  the  gross  license  of  their  day  and 
hour,  by  the  ostentation  of  evil  instincts,  they 
turned  to  the  right — some,  not  all  of  them. 
The  others  no  longer  cry  aloud  their  pagan 
admiration  of  the  nymph's  flesh  in  the  brake, 
of  the  seven  deadly  arts  and  their  sister  sins. 

In  a  word,  since  1905  a  fresher,  a  more  tonic 
air  has  been  blowing  across  the  housetops  of 
288 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

French  art  and  literature.  Science  is  too  posi 
tive.  Every  monad  has  had  its  day.  Pictorial 
impressionism  is  without  skeleton.  Mysticism 
is  coming  into  fashion  again;  only,  the  young 
sters  wear  theirs  with  a  difference.  Even  the 
Cubists  are  working  for  formal  severity,  despite 
their  geometrical  fanaticism.  Youth  will  have 
its  fling,  and  joys  in  esoteric  garb,  in  flaring 
colours,  and  those  doors  in  the  narrow  street 
called  "Perhaps/'  do  but  prove  the  eternal 
need  of  the  new  and  the  astounding.  Man 
cannot  live  on  manna  alone.  He  must,  to  keep 
from  volplaning  to  the  infinite,  go  down  and 
gnaw  his  daily  bone.  The  forked  human  radish 
with  the  head  fantastically  carved  has  under 
pinnings  also;  else  his  chamber  of  dreams 
might  overflow  into  reality,  and  then  we  should 
be  converted  in  a  trice  to  angels,  pin-feathers 
and  all. 

What  were  the  controlling  factors  in  young 
French  literature  up  to  the  greatest  marking 
date  of  modern  history,  1914?  The  philosophy 
of  Henri  Bergson  is  one;  that  philosophy,  full 
of  poetic  impulsion,  graceful  phrasing,  and 
charming  evocations;  a  feminine,  nervous, 
fleshless  philosophy,  though  deriving,  as  it 
does,  from  an  intellectual  giant,  Emile  Bou- 
troux.  Maurice  Barres  is  another  name  to 
conjure  with;  once  the  incarnation  of  a  philo 
sophical  and  slightly  cruel  egoism;  then  the 
herald  of  regionalism,  replacing  the  flinty  de 
terminism  of  Taine  with  the  watch- words:  Pa- 
289 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

triotism,  reverence  for  the  dead  —  a  reverence 
perilously  near  ancestor-worship  —  the  prose- 
master  Barres  went  into  the  political  arena, 
and  became,  notwithstanding  his  rather  ag 
gressive  "  modernism,"  an  idealistic  reactionary. 

He  is  more  subtle  in  his  intellectual  processes 
than  his  one-time  master,  Paul  Bourget,  from 
whom  his  psychology  stemmed,  and,  if  his 
patriotism  occasionally  becomes  chauvinistic, 
his  sincerity  cannot  be  challenged.  That  sin- 
ceres  t  form  of  insincerity  —  "moral  earnest 
ness,"  so  called  —  has  never  been  his.  He  is 
no  more  a  sower  of  sand  on  the  bleak  and  barren 
shore  of  negation.  Little  wonder  he  is  accepted 
as  a  vital  teacher. 

Other  names  occur  as  generators  of  present 
schools.  Stendhal,  Mallarme,  Georges  Roden- 
bach,  Rimbaud  —  that  stepfather  of  symbolism 
—  Emil  Verhaeren  —  who  is  truly  an  elemental 
and  disquieting  force  —  Paul  Adam,  Maeter 
linck,  the  late  Remy  de  Gourmont  —  who  con 
tributed  so  much  to  contemporary  thought  in 
the  making  —  Francis  Jammes,  Villiers  de  Flsle 
Adam,  Renard,  Samain,  Saint-Georges  de  Bou- 
helier,  Jules  Laforgue  —  and  how  many  others, 
to  be  found  in  the  pages  of  Vance  Thompson's 
French  Portraits,  which  valuable  study  dates 
back  to  the  middle  of  the  roaring  nineties. 


290 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

II 

When  we  are  confronted  by  a  litany  of 
strange  names,  by  the  intricate  polyphony  of 
literary  sects  and  cenacles,  the  American  lover 
of  earlier  French  poets  is  bewildered,  so  swiftly 
does  the  whirligig  of  time  bring  new  talents. 
Already  the  generation  of  1900  has  jostled  from 
their  place  the  " elders"  of  a  decade  previous: 
you  read  of  Paul-Napoleon  Roinard,  Maurice 
Beaubourg,  Hans  Ryner  —  a  remarkable  writer 
-Andre  Gide,  Charles-Louis  Philippe,  of  Paul 
Fort,  Paul  Claudel,  Andre  Suares,  Stephane  Ser 
vant,  Andre  Spire,  Phileas  Lebesgue,  Georges 
Polti  (whose  Thirty-six  Dramatic  Situations 
deserves  an  English  garb),  and  you  recall  some 
of  them  as  potent  creators  of  values. 

But  if  London,  a  few  hours  from  Paris,  only 
hears  of  these  men  through  a  few  critical  inter 
mediaries,  such  as  Arthur  Symons,  Edmund 
Gosse,  and  other  cultivated  and  cosmopolitan 
spirits,  what  may  we  not  say  of  America,  a 
week  away  from  the  scene  of  action?  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  we  are  proud  of  our  provincialism, 
and  for  those  who  "create"  — as  the  jargon 
goes  —  that  same  provincialism  is  a  wind 
shield  against  the  draughts  of  too  tempting 
imitation;  but  for  our  criticism  there  is  no 
excuse.  A  critic  will  never  be  a  catholic  critic 
of  his  native  literature  or  art  if  he  doesn't  know 
the  literatures  and  arts  of  other  lands,  para 
doxical  as  this  may  sound.  We  lack  aesthetic 
291 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

curiosity.  Because  of  our  uncritical  parochialism 
America  is  comparable  to  a  cemetery  of  cliches. 

Nevertheless,  those  of  us  who  went  as  far 
as  the  portraits  by  Vance  Thompson  and  Amy 
Lowell  must  feel  a  trifle  strange  in  the  long, 
narrow  street  of  Florian-Parmentier,  with  its 
alternations  of  Septentrional  mists  and  the 
blazing  blue  sky  of  the  Midi.  This  critic,  by 
the  way,  is  a  staunch  upholder  of  the  Gaul.  He 
will  have  no  admixture  of  Latin  influence.  He 
employs  what  has  jocosely  been  called  the 
"Woad"  argument;  he  goes  back  not  to  the 
early  Britons,  but  to  Celticism.  He  is  a  sturdy 
Kymrist,  and  believes  not  in  literatures  trans 
alpine  or  transpyrenean.  He  loathes  the  "pas 
tiche,"  the  purveyors  of  "canned"  classics,  the 
chilly  rhetoricians  who  set  too  much  store  on 
conventional  learning.  A  Frank,  a  northerner, 
and  the  originator  of  Impulsionism  is  Florian- 
Parmentier.  In  his  auscultation  of  genius, 
La  Physiologic  Morale  du  Poete  (1904),  may 
be  found  the  germs  of  his  doctrine.  This  doc 
trine  seems  familiar  enough  now,  as  does  the 
flux  of  Heraclitus  and  the  Becoming  of  Renan, 
in  the  teachings  of  Bergson.  Unanimism  has 
had  some  influence.  M.  Florian-Parmentier 
does  not  admire  this  movement  or  its  prophet, 
Jules  Romains.  Unanimism.  Ah !  the  puissant 
magic  of  the  word  for  these  budding  poets  and 
philosophers.  It  ought  to  warm  the  cockles  of 
the  heart  of  critics. 

And  then  the  generation  of  1900  —  Alex- 
292 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

ander  Mercereau,  Henri  Hertz,  Sebastien  Voirol, 
Pierre  Jaudon,  Jacques  Nayral,  Fernand  Di- 
voire,  Tancrede  Visan,  Strentz,  Giraudoux, 
Mandin,  Guillaume  Apollinaire  —  all  workers 
in  the  vast  inane,  dwellers  on  the  threshold  of 
the  future.  The  past  and  present  bearings  of 
the  Academy  Goncourt  are  carefully  indicated. 
Thus  far  nothing  extraordinary  has  come  from 
it.  Balzac  is  still  the  mighty  one  in  fiction. 
Thus  far  the  names  of  Anatole  France,  Paul 
Adam,  the  brothers  Rosny,  Pierre  Mille  —  a 
brilliant,  versatile  man  —  still  maintain  their 
primacy. 

Thus  far,  among  the  essayists,  Remy  de 
Gourmont,  Camille  Mauclair,  Maeterlinck,  Ro- 
main  Rolland,  J.  H.  Fabre,  Jules  Bois  —  now 
sojourning  in  America  and  a  thinker  of  verve 
and  originality  —  and  Henry  Houssaye,  hold 
their  own  against  the  younger  generation. 

In  the  theatre  there  are  numerous  and  vex 
ing  tendencies:  Maeterlinck,  loyally  acknowl 
edging  his  indebtedness  to  gentle  Charles  van 
Lerburghe,  created  a  spiritual  drama  and  has 
disciples;  but  the  theatre  is  the  theatre  and 
resists  innovation.  Ibsen,  who  had  his  day  in 
Paris,  and  Antoine  of  the  Free  Theatre  were 
accepted  not  because  of  their  novelty,  but  in 
spite  of  it.  They  both  were  men  of  the  theatre. 
There  is  a  school  of  Ideo-realism,  and  there  are 
Curel,  Bataille,  Porto-Riche,  Maeterlinck,  Tra- 
rieux,  and  Marie  Leneru;  but  the  technique  of 
the  drama  is  immutable. 
293 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

In  the  domain  of  philosophy  and  experi 
mental  science  we  find  Emile  Boutroux,  and 
such  collective  psychologists  as  Durckheim, 
Gustave  le  Bon,  and  Gabriel  Tarde;  names 
such  as  Binet,  Ribot,  Michel  Savigny,  Alfred 
Fouillee,  and  the  eminent  mathematician,  Henri 
Poincare  —  who  finally  became  sceptical  of  his 
favourite  logic,  philosophy,  and  mathematics. 
This  intellectual  volte-face  caused  endless  dis 
cussion.  The  truth  is  that  intuition,  the  in 
stinctive  vs.  intellectualism  —  what  William 
James  called  "vicious  intellectualism"  —  is 
swaying  the  younger  French  thinkers  and  poets. 

There  is,  if  one  is  to  judge  by  the  anthologies, 
far  too  much  of  metaphysics  in  contemporary 
poetry.  Poetry  is  in  danger  of  suffocating  in  a 
misty  mid-region  of  metaphysics.  The  vital  im 
pulse,  intuitionalism,  and  rhythmic  flow  of  time 
in  Bergson  caught  the  fancy  of  the  poets.  Nat 
urally  enough.  Literary  dogmatism  had  pre 
vailed  too  long  in  academic  centres.  Now  it  is 
the  deliquescence  of  formal  verse  that  is  to  be 
feared.  Vers-libre,  which  began  with  such  initi 
ators  as  that  astonishing  prodigy,  Arthur  Rim 
baud,  has  run  the  gamut  from  esoteric  illumin- 
ism  to  sonorous  yawping  from  the  terrace  of  the 
brasseries.  Have  frogs  wings?  we  are  tempted 
to  ask.  Voices  they  have,  but  not  bird-like 
voices. 

That  fascinating  philosopher  and  friend  of 
Remy  de  Gourmont  —  who  practically  intro 
duced  him  —  must  not  be  overlooked,  for  he 
294 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

had  genuine  influence.  I  refer  to  brilliant 
Jules  Gaultier,  who  evolved  from  Flaubert's 
Madame  Bo  vary  the  idea  of  his  B  ovary  sme  — 
which,  succinctly  stated,  is  the  instinct  in  man 
kind  to  appear  other  than  it  is;  from  the  phi 
losopher  to  the  snob,  from  the  priest  to  the 
actor,  from  the  duchess  to  the  prostitute. 

Of  the  influence  of  politics  upon  art  and  lit 
erature —  which  happily  are  no  cloistered  vir 
tues  in  France  —  we  need  not  speak  here.  M. 
Florian-Parmentier  does  so  in  his  admirable  and 
bulky  book,  of  which  we  have  only  exposed  the 
high  lights. 

Since  Jules  Huret's  Enquete  sur  1'Evolution 
Litteraire  (1890),  followed  by  similar  works  of 
Vellay,  Jean  Muller,  and  Gaston  Picard  (1913), 
we  recall  no  such  pamphlet  as  Emile  Henri- 
ot's,  mentioned  above.  He  put  the  questions: 
"Where  are  we?  Where  are  we  going?"  in  Le 
Temps  of  Paris,  June,  1912,  to  a  number  of 
representative  thinkers  and  poets,  and  reprinted 
between  covers  their  answers  in  1913. 

The  result  is  rather  confusing,  a  cloud  of 
contradictory  witnesses  are  assembled,  and 
what  one  affirms  the  other  denies.  There  are 
no  schools !  Yes,  there  are  groups !  We  are 
going  to  the  devil  headlong !  The  sky  is  full 
of  rainbows  and  the  humming  of  harps  celes 
tial!  Better  the  extravagances  of  the  decayed 
Romanticists  than  the  debasing  realism  of  the 
modern  novel,  cry  the  Symbolists.  A  plague 
on  all  your  houses!  say  the  Unanimists.  One 
295 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

fierce  Wolf  (Loup)  admitted  that  at  the  ban 
quets  of  his  cenacle  he  and  his  fellow  poets 
always  ate  in  effigy  the  classic  writers.  Or  was 
it  at  the  Symbolists'?  Does  it  much  matter? 
The  gesture  counts  alone  with  these  youthful 
"Fumistes" —  as  Leconte  de  Lisle  had  chris 
tened  their  predecessors. 

Verlaine,  in  his  waggish  mood,  persisted  in 
spelling  as  " Cymbalists"  the  Symbolists,  his 
own  followers.  Gongs  would  have  been  a  better 
word.  A  punster  speaks  of  Theists  as  those 
who  love  "le  bon  Dieu  and  tea."  The  new 
critical  school,  at  its  head  Charles  Maurras, 
do  not  conceal  their  contempt  for  all  these 
" arrivistes"  and  revolutionary  groups,  believ 
ing  that  only  a  classic  renaissance  will  save 
Young  France.  Barnums,  the  entire  lot!  pro 
nounces  in  faded  accents  the  ultra-academic 
group.  Three  critics  of  wide-reaching  in 
fluence  are  dead  since  the  war  began:  Emile 
Faguet,  Jules  Lemaitre,  and  Remy  de  Gour- 
mont.  They  leave  no  successors  worthy  of 
their  mettle. 


m 

The  three  volumes  of  anthology  of  French 
Contemporary  Poets  from  1866  to  1916  have 
been  supplemented  by  a  fourth  entitled  Poets 
of  Yesterday  and  To-day  (1916).  Edited  by 
the  painstaking  M.  G.  Walch,  it  comprises  the 
verse  of  poets  born  as  late  as  1886.  Among 
296 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

the  rest  is  the  gifted  Charles  Dumas,  who  fell 
in  battle,  1914.  As  epigraph  to  the  new  collec 
tion  the  editor  has  used  a  line  from  this  poet's 
testament:  "Ce  desir  d'etre  tout  que  j'appelle 
mon  ame ! ' '  Another  anthology  of  the  new  poets 
is  prefaced  by  M.  Gustave  Lanson,  but  the 
Walch  collection  reveals  more  promising  talents, 
or  else  the  poems  are  more  representative. 

Signor  Marinetti,  who  is  bilingual,  is  ec 
centrically  amusing.  But  are  his  contortions 
on  the  tripod  art?  The  auto  and  aeroplane 
are  celebrated,  also  steam,  speed,  mist,  and 
the  destruction  of  all  art  prior  to  1900.  The 
new  schools  are  wary  of  rhetoric,  thus  follow 
ing  Paul  Verlaine's  injunction:  Take  Eloquence 
by  the  neck  and  wring  it!  Imagists  abound, 
but  they  are  in  an  aristocratic  minority.  The 
watchword  is:  sobriety  in  thinking  and  ex 
pression. 

Strangely  enough,  two  names  emerge  vic 
toriously  from  the  confusing  lyric  symphony 
and  they  are  those  of  Belgian-born  poets  — 
Emile  Verhaeren,  whose  tragic  death  last  year 
was  a  loss  to  literature,  and  Maurice  Maeter 
linck.  What  living  lyric  poet  has  the  incom 
parable  power  of  that  epical  Verhaeren,  unless 
it  be  that  of  the  more  sophisticated  Gabriele 
d'Annunzio,  or  the  sumptuous  decorative  verse 
of  Henri  de  Regnier,  whose  polished  art  is  the 
antithesis  of  the  exuberant,  lawless,  resonant 
reverberations  of  Verhaeren? 

What  thinker  and  dramatist  is  known  like 
297 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

Maeterlinck,  except  it  be  the  magical  Gerhart 
Hauptmann?  Rough  to  brutality  —  for  Ver- 
haeren  at  one  time  emulated  Walt  Whitman 
(variously  spelled  as  "Walth"  and  "With- 
man");  with  the  names  of  foreigners  Paris  has 
ever  been  careless  in  its  orthography,  witness 
"Litz"  and  "Edgard  Poe";  he  can  boast  the 
divine  afflatus.  His  personality  is  of  the  cen 
trifugal  order.  He  has  a  tumultuous  rhythmic 
undertow  that  sweeps  one  irresistibly  with  him. 
But  his  genius  is  disintegrating,  rather  than 
constructive. 

Of  what  French  poet  among  the  younger 
group  dare  we  say  the  same?  Grace,  lyric 
sweetness,  subtlety  in  ideas,  facile  technique  — 
all  these,  yes,  but  not  the  power  of  saying  great 
things  greatly. 

As  for  Maeterlinck,  he  owes  something  to 
Emerson;  but  his  mellow  wisdom  and  clair 
voyance  are  his  own.  He  is  a  seer,  and  his 
crepuscular  pages  are  pools  of  glimmering  in 
certitudes,  whereas  of  Verhaeren  we  may  say, 
as  Carlyle  said  of  Landor's  prose:  "The  sound 
of  it  is  like  the  ring  of  Roman  swords  on  the 
helmets  of  barbarians." 

Henry  James  tells  a  story  of  an  argument 
between  Zola,  Flaubert,  and  Turgenev,  the 
Russian  novelist  declaring  that  for  him 
Chateaubriand  was  not  the  Ultima  Thule  of 
prose  perfection.  This  insensibility  to  the  finer 
nuances  of  the  language  angered  and  as 
tounded  Zola  and  Flaubert.  They  set  it  down 

298 


CROSS-CURRENTS 

to  the  fact  that  none  but  a  Frenchman  can 
quite  penetrate  the  inner  sanctuary  of  his  own 
language;  which  may  be  true,  though  I  believe 
that  for  Turgenev  the  author  of  Atala  was  tem 
peramentally  distasteful. 

Therefore,  when  an  American  makes  the 
statement  that  the  two  Belgians  are  superior 
to  the  living  Frenchmen  it  may  be  classed  as 
a  purely  personal  judgment.  But  the  proposi 
tion  first  mooted  by  a  distinguished  critic, 
Remy  de  Gourmont,  that  Maeterlinck  and 
Verhaeren  be  elected  to  the  French  Academy, 
was  not  a  bizarre  one.  The  war  has  effaced 
many  artistic  frontiers.  The  majority  of  the 
little  circles  that  once  pullulated  in  Paris  no 
longer  exist.  Both  Verhaeren  and  Maeterlinck 
are  now  Frenchmen  of  the  French.  Their  in 
clusion  in  the  Academy  would  have  honoured 
that  venerable  and  too  august  body  as  much 
as  the  Belgian  poets. 

As  to  the  war's  influence  on  French  letters, 
that  question  is  for  soothsayers  to  decide,  not 
for  the  present  writer.  After  1870  certain 
psychiatrists  pretended  that  a  degeneration  of 
body  and  soul  had  blighted  artistic  and  lit 
erary  Europe.  Well,  we  can  only  wish  for  the 
new  France  of  1920  and  later  such  a  galaxy 
of  talents  and  genius  as  the  shining  groups  from 
1875  to  1914.  No  need  to  ringer  the  chaplet 
of  their  names  and  achievements.  Such  books 
as  those  by  Catulle  Mendes,  Florian-Parmentier, 
LansoE|,  and  Walch  prove  our  contention. 
299 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

TIME  was  when  a  fame-craving  young  man 
could  earn  a  reputation  for  originality  by  merely 
going  to  the  market-place  and  loudly  proclaim 
ing  his  disbelief  in  a  deity.  It  would  seem  that 
modern  critics  of  Richard  Wagner,  busily  en 
gaged  in  placing  the  life  of  the  composer  under 
their  microscopes,  are  seeking  the  laurels  of  the 
ambitious  chap  aforesaid. 
.  Never  has  the  music  of  Wagner  been  more 
popular  than  now;  his  name  on  the  opera  bill 
boards  is  bound  to  crowd  a  house.  And  never, 
paradoxical  as  it  may  sound,  has  there  been 
such  a  critical  hue  and  cry  over  his  works  and 
personality.  The  publication  of  his  autobiog 
raphy  has  much  to  do  with  this  renewal  of  in 
terest.  There  is  some  praise,  much  abuse,  to 
be  found  in  the  newly  published  books  on  the 
subject.  European  critics  are  building  up  little 
islands  of  theory,  coral-like,  some  with  fantastic 
lagoons,  others  founded  on  stern  truth,  and 
many  doomed  to  be  washed  away  over-night. 
Nevertheless,  the  true  Richard  Wagner  is  be 
ginning  to  emerge  from  the  haze  of  Nibelheim 
behind  which  he  contrived  to  hide  his  real  self. 

Wagner  the  gigantic  comedian;   Wagner  the 
300 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

egotist;  Wagner  the  victim  of  a  tragic  love, 
Wagner  tone-poet,  mock  philosopher,  and  a 
wonderful  apparition  in  the  world  of  art  till 
success  overtook  him;  then  Wagner  become 
bored,  with  no  more  worlds  to  conquer,  de 
serted  by  his  best  friends  —  whom  he  had 
alienated  —  without  the  solace  of  the  men  he 
had  most  loved,  the  men  who  had  helped  him 
over  the  thorny  path  of  his  life  —  Liszt, 
Nietzsche,  Von  Billow,  Otto  Wesendonk,  and 
how  many  others,  even  King  Ludwig  II,  whom 
he  had  treated  with  characteristic  ingratitude! 
No,  Richard  Wagner  during  the  sterile  years, 
so  called,  from  1866  to  1883,  was  not  a  contented 
man,  despite  his  union  with  Cosima  von  Biilow- 
Liszt  and  the  foundation  of  a  home  and  family 
at  Baireuth. 


However,  there  are  exceptions.  One  is  the 
book  of  Otto  Bournot  entitled  Ludwig  Geyer,  the 
Stepfather  of  Richard  Wagner.  I  wrote  about 
it  in  1913  for  the  New  York  Times.  In  this 
slender  volume  of  only  seventy- two  pages  the 
author  sifts  all  the  evidence  in  the  Geyer- 
Wagner  question,  and  he  has  delved  into 
archives,  into  the  newspapers  of  Geyer's  days, 
and  has  had  access  to  hitherto  untouched 
material.  It  must  be  admitted  that  his  con 
clusions  are  not  to  be  lightly  denied.  August 
Bottiger's  Necrology  has  until  recently  been 
301 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

the  chief  source  of  facts  in  the  career  of  Geyer, 
but  Wagner's  Autobiography  —  which  in  spots 
Bournot  corrects  —  and  the  life  of  Wagner  by 
Mary  Burrell,  not  to  mention  other  books, 
have  furnished  Bournot  with  new  weapons. 

The  Geyers  as  far  back  as  1700  were  simple 
pious  folk,  the  first  of  the  family  being  a  cer 
tain  Benjamin  Geyer,  who  about  1700  was  a 
trombone-player  and  organist.  Indeed,  the 
chief  occupation  of  many  Geyers  was  in  some 
way  or  other  connected  with  the  Evangelical 
Church.  Ludwig  Heinrich  Christian  Geyer 
was  a  portraitist  of  no  mean  merit,  an  actor 
of  considerable  power  —  his  Franz  Moor  was 
a  favourite  r61e  with  the  public  —  a  dramatist 
of  fair  ability  (he  wrote  a  tragedy,  among 
others,  named  The  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents), 
and  also  a  verse-maker.  His  acquaintance  with 
Weber  stimulated  his  interest  in  music;  Weber 
discovered  his  voice,  and  he  sang  in  opera. 
Truly  a  versatile  man  who  displayed  in  minia 
ture  all  the  qualities  of  Wagner.  The  latter 
was  too  young  at  the  time  of  Geyer's  death, 
September,  1821,  to  have  profited  much  by 
the  precepts  of  his  stepfather,  but  his  example 
certainly  did  prove  stimulating  to  the  imagina 
tion  of  the  budding  poet  and  composer.  Geyer 
married  Johanna  Wagner-Bertz  (Mary  Burrell 
was  the  first  to  give  the  correct  spelling  of  her 
maiden  name),  the  widow  of  the  police  func 
tionary  Wagner  (to  whose  memory  Richard 
pays  such  cynical  homage  in  his  obituary), 
302 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

August  14,  1814.  She  had  about  two  hundred 
and  sixty-one  thalern,  and  eight  children.  A 
ninth  came  later  in  the  person  of  Cacile,  who 
afterward  married  a  member  of  the  Avenarius 
family.  Cacile,  or  Cicely,  was  a  prime  favourite 
with  Richard. 

Seven  years  passed,  and  again  Frau  Geyer 
found  herself  a  widow,  with  nine  children  and 
little  money.  How  the  family  all  tumbled  up 
in  the  world,  owing  much  to  the  courage,  wit, 
vivacity,  and  unshaken  will-power  of  their 
mother,  may  be  found  in  the  autobiography. 
Bournot  admits  that  Geyer  and  his  wife  may 
have  carried  to  the  grave  certain  secrets. 
Richard  Wagner  until  he  was  nine  years  old 
was  known  as  Richard  Geyer,  and  on  page 
thirteen  of  his  book  our  author  prints  the  fol 
lowing  significant  sentence:  "The  possibility 
of  Wagner's  descent  from  Geyer  contains  in 
itself  nothing  detrimental  to  our  judgment  of 
the  art- work  of  Baireuth." 

II 

In  1900  a  twenty-page  pamphlet  bearing  the 
title  Richard  Wagner  in  Zurich  was  published 
in  Leipsic.  It  was  signed  Hans  Belart,  and 
gave  for  the  first  time  to  a  much  mys 
tified  world  the  story  of  Wagner's  passion 
for  Mathilde  Wesendonk,  thus  shattering  be 
yond  hope  of  repair  our  cherished  belief  that 
303 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

Cosima  von  Billow-Liszt  had  been  the  lode- 
stone  of  Wagner's  desire,  that  to  her  influence 
was  due  the  creation  of  Tristan  and  Isolde, 
its  composer's  high-water  mark  in  poetic, 
dramatic  music.  Now,  Belart,  not  content 
with  his  iconoclastic  pamphlet,  has  just  sent 
forth  a  fat  book  which  he  calls  Richard  Wagner's 
Love-Tragedy  with  Mathilde  Wesendonk. 

We  had  thought  that  the  last  word  in  the 
matter  had  been  said  when  Baireuth  (Queen 
Cosima  I)  allowed  the  publication  of  Wagner's 
diaries  and  love-letters  to  Mathilde  —  though 
her  complete  correspondence  is  as  yet  unpub 
lished.  But  Belart  is  one  of  the  busiest  among 
the  German  critical  coral  builders.  He  has 
dug  into  musty  newspapers  and  letters,  and 
gives  at  the  close  of  his  work  a  long  list  of  au 
thorities.  Yet  nothing  startlingly  new  comes 
out  of  his  researches.  We  knew  that  Mathilde 
Wesendonk  (or  Wesendonck)  was  the  first  love 
of  Wagner,  a  genuine  and  noble  passion,  not 
his  usual  self-seeking  philandering.  We  also 
knew  that  Otto  Wesendonk  behaved  like  a 
patient  husband  and  a  gentleman  —  any  other 
man  would  have  put  a  bullet  in  the  body  of 
the  thrice  impertinent  genius;  knew,  too,  that 
Tristan  and  Isolde  was  born  of  this  romance. 
But  there  is  a  mass  of  fresh  details,  petty  back 
stairs  gossip,  all  the  tittle-tattle  beloved  of 
such  writers,  that  in  company  with  Julius 
Kapp's  Wagner  und  die  Frauen,  makes  Belart's 
new  book  a  valuable  one  for  reference. 
3°4 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

Kapp,  who  has  written  a  life  of  Franz  Liszt, 
goes  Belart  one  better  in  hinting  that  the  in 
fatuated  couple  transformed  their  idealism  into 
realism.  Belart  does  not  believe  this;  neither 
does  Emil  Ludwig,  the  latest  critical  com 
mentator  on  Wagner.  But  neither  critic  gives 
the  profoundest  proof  that  the  love  of  Richard 
and  Mathilde  was  an  exalted,  platonic  one, 
i.  e.,  the  proof  psychologic.  I  firmly  believe 
that  if  Mathilde  Wesendonk  had  eloped  with 
Wagner  in  1858,  as  he  begged  her  to  do,  Tris 
tan  and  Isolde  might  not  have  been  finished; 
at  all  events,  the  third  act  would  not  have 
been  what  it  now  is.  A  mighty  longing  is  better 
for  the  birth  of  great  art  than  facile  happiness. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  selfish  unhappy  life 
Wagner  realised  Goethe's  words  of  wisdom: 
"Renounce  thou  shalt;  shalt  renounce."  It 
was  a  bitter  sacrifice,  but  out  of  its  bitter  sweet 
ness  came  the  honey  and  moonlight  of  Tristan 
and  Isolde.  Wagner  suffered,  Mathilde  suffered, 
Otto  Wesendonk  suffered,  and  last,  but  not 
least,  Minna  Wagner,  the  poor  pawn  in  his 
married  game,  suffered  to  distraction.  Let  us 
begin  with  a  quotation  on  the  last  page  but 
three  of  Belart's  book:  " Remarked  Otto  Wes 
endonk  to  a  friend:  'I  have  hunted  Wagner 
from  my  threshold.  .  .  .' ' 

This  was  in  August,  1858.  Wagner  first 
met  the  Wesendonks  about  1852,  three  years 
after  he  had  fled  to  Zurich  from  Dresden  be 
cause  of  his  participation  in  the  uprising  of 
305 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

1849.  (Wagner  as  amateur  revolutionist!) 
Thanks  to  the  request  of  his  wife  Mathilde, 
Otto  Wesendonk  furnished  a  little  house  on 
the  hill  near  his  splendid  villa  for  the  Wagners. 
First  christened  "Fafner's  Repose,"  Wagner 
changed  the  title  to  the  "Asyl,"  and  for  a  time 
it  was  truly  an  asylum  for  this  perturbed  spirit. 
But  he  must  needs  fall  deeply  in  love  with 
his  charming  and  beautiful  neighbour,  a  woman 
of  intellectual  and  poetic  gifts,  and  to  the  chagrin 
of  her  husband  and  of  Wagner's  faithful  wife. 
The  gossip  in  the  neighbourhood  was  con 
siderable,  for  the  complete  frankness  of  the 
infatuated  ones  was  not  the  least  curious  part 
of  the  affair.  Liszt  knew  of  it,  so  did  the  Prin 
cess  Layn- Wittgenstein.  An  immense  amount 
of  "snooping"  was  indulged  in  by  interested 
lady  friends  of  Minna  Wagner.  She  has  her 
apologists,  and,  judging  from  the  letters  she 
wrote  at  the  time  and  afterward  —  several 
printed  for  the  first  time  by  Kapp  and  Belart 
—  she  took  a  lively  hand  in  the  general  pro 
ceedings.  Evidently  she  was  tired  of  her  good 
man's  behaviour,  and  when  he  solemnly  assured 
her  that  it  was  the  master-passion  of  his  life 
she  didn't  believe  him.  Naturally  not.  He 
had  cried  "wolf"  too  often;  besides,  Minna, 
like  a  practical  person,  viewed  the  possibility 
of  a  rupture  with  Otto  Wesendonk  as  a  distinct 
misfortune.  Otto  had  not  only  advanced 
much  money  to  Richard,  but  he  paid  twelve 
thousand  francs  for  the  scores  of  Rheingold 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

and  Walkiire  and  for  the  complete  performing 
rights.  Afterward  he  sent  both  to  King  Lud- 
wig  II  as  a  gift  —  but  I  doubt  if  he  ever  got  a 
penny  from  his  tenants  for  rent.  He  also  de 
frayed  the  expenses  of  the  Wagner  concert 
at  Zurich,  a  little  item  of  nine  thousand  francs. 
Scandal  and  calumny  invaded  his  home,  the 
fair  fame  of  his  wife  was  threatened.  No  won 
der  the  finale,  long  deferred,  was  stormy,  even 
operatic. 

The  lady  was  much  younger  than  her  hus 
band;  she  was  born  at  the  close  of  1828,  there 
fore  Wagner's  junior  by  fifteen  years.  She 
was  a  Luckemeyer,  her  mother  a  Stein;  a  cul 
tured,  sweet-natured  woman,  it  is  more  than 
doubtful  if  she  could  have  endured  Wagner 
as  a  husband.  She  did  a  wise  thing  in  resisting 
his  prayers.  Not  only  was  her  husband  a  bar 
to  such  a  proceeding,  but  her  children  would 
have  always  prevented  her  thinking  of  a  legal 
separation.  All  sorts  of  plans  were  in  the  air. 
When,  in  1857,  the  American  panic  seriously 
threatened  the  prosperity  of  Otto  Wesendonk, 
who  had  heavy  business  interests  in  New  York, 
gossip  averred  that  Frau  Wesendonk  would 
ask  for  a  divorce;  but  the  air  cleared  and  mat 
ters  resumed  their  old  aspect.  Minna  Wagner's 
health,  always  poor,  became  worse.  It  was  a 
case  of  exasperated  nerves  made  worse  by  drugs. 
She  daily  made  scenes  at  home  and  threatened 
to  tell  what  she  knew.  That  she  knew  much 
is  evident  from  her  correspondence  with  Frau 
307 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

Wilk.  She  said  that  Wagner  had  two  hearts, 
but  while  he  delighted  in  intellectual  and  emo 
tional  friendship  with  such  a  superior  soul  as 
Mathilde,  he  nevertheless  would  not  forego 
the  domestic  comforts  provided  by  Minna. 
Like  many  another  genius,  Wagner  was  bour 
geois.  Those  intolerable  dogs,  the  parrot,  the 
coffee-drinking,  the  soft  beds  and  solicitude 
about  his  underclothing,  all  were  truly  Ger 
man;  human-all-too-human. 

In  September,  1857,  tne  newly  married  Von 
Billows  paid  the  Wagners  a  visit,  and  as  the 
guest-chamber  of  the  cottage  was  occupied 
they  took  up  temporary  quarters  at  an  inn, 
"The  Raven"  (Wotan's  ravens!)  Cosima, 
young,  impressionable,  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall  and  wept  when  Wagner  played  and  sang 
for  his  friends  the  first  and  second  acts  of  Sieg 
fried.  Even  then  she  felt  the  "pull"  of  his 
magnetism,  of  his  genius,  and  doubtless  re 
gretted  having  married  the  fussy,  irritable 
Von  Billow  —  who  had  gone  down  in  the  social 
scale  in  wedding  a  girl  of  dubious  descent. 
(In  Paris  Liszt  for  many  years  was  only  a  stroll 
ing  gipsy  piano-player  to  whom  the  Countess 
d'Agoult  had  "condescended.") 

Mathilde  Wesendonk  entertained  the  Von 
Billows,  who  went  away  pleased  with  their 
reception,  above  all  deeply  impressed  by  the 
exiled  Wagner.  They  so  reported  to  Liszt, 
and  Von  Billow  did  more;  as  the  scion  of  an 
old  aristocratic  family,  he  made  many  attempts 
308 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

to  secure  an  amnesty  for  Wagner,  as  well  as 
making  propaganda  for  his  music.  Which 
favours  Wagner,  who  was  the  very  genius  of 
ingratitude,  repaid  later. 

In  one  point  Herr  Ludwig  is  absolutely  cor 
rect  :  the  composer  was  supported  by  his  friends 
from  1849  to  the  year  when  King  Ludwig  in 
tervened.  The  starvation  talk  was  a  part  of 
the  Wagner  legend,  even  the  Paris  days  were 
greatly  exaggerated  as  to  their  black  poverty. 
Wagner  was  always  a  spendthrift. 

From  November,  1857,  to  May,  1858, 
Wagner  set  to  music  the  five  poems  of  Ma 
thilde,  veritable  sketches  for  Tristan.  Early 
in  September,  1857,  the  relations  between 
Minna  and  Mathilde  had  become  strained. 
Wagner  accused  his  wife  of  abusing  Mathilde 
in  a  vulgar  manner;  worse  remained;  he  had 
sent  a  letter  by  the  gardener  to  Frau  Wesen- 
donk  and  the  jealous  wife  intercepted  it,  broke 
the  seal,  read  the  contents.  To  Wagner,  this 
was  the  blackest  of  crimes;  yet  can  you  blame 
her?  To  be  sure,  she  had  no  conception  of 
her  husband's  genius.  For  her  Rienzi  was  his 
only  work.  Had  it  not  succeeded?  So  had 
Tannhauser  and  Lohengrin,  also  The  Flying 
Dutchman,  but  Rienzi  was  her  darling.  How 
often  she  begged  him  to  write  another  opera  of 
the  same  Wagnerian  calibre  he  has  not  failed 
to  tell  us.  Otto  Wesendonk's  wife  she  firmly 
believed  was  leading  him  into  a  quagmire. 
What  theatre  could  ever  produce  The  Ring? 
3°9 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

One  thing,  however,  Minna  did  not  do,  as  most 
writers  on  the  subject  say  she  did:  she  did 
not  show  the  fatal  letter  to  Wesendonk  at  the 
time,  but  only  to  Wagner.  Later  she  made  its 
meanings  clear  to  the  injured  husband,  which 
no  doubt  provoked  the  explosive  phrase  quoted 
above. 

The  youthful  Karl  Tausig,  bearing  credentials 
from  Liszt,  appeared  on  the  scene  in  May, 
1858,  and  the  entire  household  was  soon  in 
an  uproar.  Luckily,  Wagner  had  persuaded 
Minna  to  take  a  cold-water  cure  at  a  sanatorium 
some  distance  from  Zurich,  so  he  could  handle 
the  wild-eyed  Tausig,  whose  volcanic  piano 
performances  at  the  age  of  sixteen  made  the 
mature  composer  both  wonder  and  admire. 
Tausig  smoked  black  cigars,  a  trait  he  imitated 
from  Liszt,  and  almost  lived  on  coffee.  Here 
is  a  curious  criticism  of  him  made  by  Cosima 
Von  Billow,  who,  it  must  be  remembered,  was 
both  the  daughter  and  wife  of  famous  pianists. 
She  said:  " Tausig  has  no  touch,  no  individu 
ality;  he  is  a  caricature  of  Liszt."  This,  in 
the  light  of  Tausig's  subsequent  artistic  career, 
sounds  almost  comical;  it  also  shows  the  in 
tensely  one-sided  temperament  of  a  remark 
able  woman,  who  banished  from  her  life  both 
von  Biilow  and  her  father,  Franz  Liszt,  when 
Wagner  entered  into  her  dreams.  The  forti 
tude  she  displayed  after  her  Richard's  death  in 
1883  was  not  tempered  by  any  human  feeling 
310 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

toward  her  father.  His  telegrams  were  un 
answered.  She  denied  herself  to  him.  She  be 
came  a  Briinnhilde  frozen  into  a  symbol  of 
intolerable  grief. 

Of  her  personal  fascination  the  sister  of 
Nietzsche,  Elizabeth  Foerster-Nietzsche,  told 
me,  when  I  last  saw  her  at  Weimar.  Von 
Billow  succumbed  to  this  charm;  Rubinstein 
also  (query:  perhaps  that  is  the  reason  he  so 
savagely  abused  Wagner  in  his  Conversations 
on  Music?),  and,  if  gossip  doesn't  lie,  Nietzsche 
was  another  victim. 

On  September  17,  1858,  after  a  general  row, 
Wagner  left  his  home  on  the  green  hill,  his 
"Asyl,"  for  ever.  Why?  Plenty  of  conjectures, 
no  definite  statements.  He  makes  a  great 
show  of  frankness  in  his  diaries,  in  his  auto 
biography;  but  they  were  obviously  "edited" 
by  Baireuth.  Tristan  and  Isolde  remains  as 
evidence  that  a  mighty  emotion  had  trans 
figured  the  nature  of  a  genius,  and  instead  of 
an  erotic  anecdote  the  world  of  art  is  richer  in 
the  possession  of  a  moving  drama  of  desire 
and  woe  and  tragedy.  At  the  Berlin  premiere 
of  Tristan  the  old  Kaiser  Wilhelm  remarked: 
"How  Wagner  must  have  loved  when  he  wrote 
the  work;"  which  is  sound  psychology. 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 


ni 

The  two  books  discussed  are  constructive 
in  nature;  not  so  the  book  by  Emil  Ludwig, 
Wagner,  or  the  Disenchanted,  which  is  frankly 
destructive.  Since  The  Wagner  Case  by 
Nietzsche  —  and  not  Nietzsche  at  his  best  — 
there  has  not  been  written  a  book  so  over 
flowing  with  hatred  for  Wagner,  the  man  as 
well  as  the  musician.  Ludwig  is  the  author 
of  poems,  plays,  and  a  study  of  Bismarck,  the 
latter  a  noteworthy  achievement.  He  is  thor 
ough  in  his  attacks,  though  he  does  not  measure 
up  to  Ernest  Newman  in  his  analysis  of  Wag 
ner's  poetry,  libretti,  and  philosophy.  The 
English  critic's  studies  remain  the  best  of  its 
kind,  because  it  is  written  without  parti-pris. 

Ludwig  slashes  a  la  Nietzsche,  though  he 
cannot  boast  that  poet's  diamantine  style. 
He  accuses  Wagner  of  being  paroxysmal,  erotic 
—  a  painter  of  moods;  he  couldn't  build  a 
Greek  temple  like  Beethoven  —  weak  as  a  poet, 
inconclusive  as  a  musician.  For  Tristan  and 
Die  Meistersinger  he  has  words  of  hearty  praise. 
The  Ludwig  book  stirred  up  a  nest  of  hornets, 
and  one  lawsuit  resulted.  A  newspaper  critic 
presumed  to  criticise,  and  the  sensitive  poet, 
who  calls  Wagner  every  bad  name  in  the  Schimpf 
Lexicon,  invoked  the  aid  of  the  law.  We  know 
only  too  well,  thanks  to  that  ill-tasting  but 
engrossing  autobiography,  that  Wagner  was  a 
312 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

monster  of  ingratitude.  Hasn't  Nietzsche, 
against  his  own  natural  feeling,  proclaimed 
the  futility  of  gratitude?  Perhaps  he  learned 
this  lesson  from  his  hard  experience  with  Wag 
ner.  We  also  know  that  Wagner  wanted  to 
run  the  universe,  but  after  a  brief  note  from 
Ludwig  II  he  left  Munich  rather  than  face 
the  angry  burghers. 

He  attempted  to  coerce  Bismarck,  but  there 
he  ran  up  against  a  wall  of  granite.  Bismarck 
was  a  Beethoven  lover,  and  he  abhorred,  as 
did  Von  Beust,  revolutionists.  Thereat  Wagner 
wrote  sarcastic  things  about  the  uselessness 
and  vanity  of  statesmen.  He  didn't  treat  Lud 
wig  II  right  when  he  announced  from  Venice 
that  he  wasn't  in  sufficient  health  and  spirits 
to  grant  the  King's  request  for  a  performance 
of  the  prelude  to  Lohengrin  in  a  darkened 
theatre  with  one  listener,  Ludwig  II.  (By  the 
way,  Ludwig  II  never  sat  through  a  perform 
ance  alone  of  Parsifal.  Once  and  once  only, 
years  before  the  completion  of  the  work,  he 
heard  a  performance  of  the  prelude  in  Munich 
given  for  his  sole  benefit.)  Wagner's  gruff 
letter  wounded  the  sensitive  idealist.  In  1866, 
a  few  weeks  after  the  death  of  Minna  Wagner- 
Planer,  Cosima  von  Billow-Liszt  followed  Wag 
ner  to  Switzerland.  Probably  the  hostile  at 
titude  of  Liszt  in  the  affair  was  largely  inspired 
by  the  fact  that  when  Richard  and  Cosima 
married,  the  latter  abjured  Catholicism  and 
became  a  Protestant.  Liszt,  a  religious  man 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

(despite  his  pyrotechnical  virtuosity  in  the  lux 
urious  region  of  sentiment),  never  could  rec 
oncile  himself  to  this  defection  on  the  part 
of  a  beloved  child. 

It  angered  Nietzsche  to  discover  in  Wagner 
a  leaning  toward  mysticism,  toward  religion: 
witness  the  mock-duck  mysticism  and  burlesque 
of  religious  ritual  in  Parsifal.  After  Feuerbach 
came  Arthur  Schopenhauer  in  the  intellectual 
life  of  Wagner.  This  was  in  1854.  His  friend 
Wille  lent  him  the  book.  Immediately  he 
started  to  "Schopenhauerise"  the  Ring,  thereby 
making  a  hopeless  muddle  of  situation  and 
character.  The  enormous  vitality  of  Wagner's 
temperament  expressed  itself  in  essentially  op 
timistic  terms.  He  was  not  a  pessimist,  and 
he  hopelessly  misunderstood  his  new  master. 
Wo  tan  must  needs  become  a  Schopenhauerian; 
and  Siegfried,  a  pessimist  at  the  close. 

Nietzsche  was  right;  Schopenhauer  proved 
a  powerful  poison  for  Wagner.  And  Schopen 
hauer  himself  laughed  at  Wagner's  music;  he 
remained  true  to  Rossini  and  Mozart  and  ad 
vised  Wagner,  through  a  friend,  to  stick  to 
the  theatre  and  hang  his  music  on  a  nail  in  the 
wall;  but  when  his  library  was  overhauled 
several  marginalia  were  discovered,  one  which 
he  contemptuously  wrote  on  a  verse  of  Wagner's: 
"  Ear !  Ear !  Where  are  your  ears,  musician  ?  " 

Wagner,  when  Liszt  adjured  him  to  turn  to 
religion  as  a  consolation,  replied:  "I  believe 
only  in  mankind."  Ludwig  compares  this 
314 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

declaration  with  some  of  the  latter  opinions 
concerning  Christianity,  of  which  Wagner  has 
said  many  evil  things.  Wagner's  life  was  a 
series  of  concessions  to  the  inevitable.  He 
modified  his  art  theories  as  he  grew  older,  and 
with  fame  and  riches  his  character  deteriorated. 

He  couldn't  stand  success  —  he,  the  bravest 
man  of  his  day;  the  undaunted  fighter  for 
an  idea  crooked  the  knee  to  caste,  became 
an  amateur  mystic  and  announced  his  inten 
tion  of  returning  to  absolute  music,  of  writing 
a  symphony  strict  in  form  —  which,  for  his 
reputation,  he  luckily  did  not  attempt.  He 
was  a  colossal  actor  and  the  best  self-advertiser 
the  world  has  yet  known  since  Nero.  But  I 
can't  understand  Herr  Ludwig  when  he  asserts 
that  from  1866  to  1883  the  composer  did  noth 
ing  but  compose  two  marches,  finish  Siegfried 
and  Gotterdammerung.  Rather  a  large  order, 
considering  the  labours  of  the  man  as  practical 
opera  conductor,  prose  writer,  poet-dramatist, 
and  composer.  And  then,  too,  the  gigantic 
scheme  of  Baireuth  was  realised  in  1876. 

Comparatively  barren  would  be  a  fairer 
phrase.  After  Tristan  and  Isolde,  what  could 
any  man  compose?  A  work  which  its  creator 
rightfully  said  was  a  miracle  he  couldn't  un 
derstand.  After  the  anecdotage  of  Wagner's 
career  is  forgotten,  after  Baireuth  has  become 
owl-haunted,  Tristan  and  Isolde  will  be  listened 
to  by  men  and  women  who  love  or  have  loved. 

It  isn't  pleasant  to  read  a  book  like  Ludwig's, 


MORE  ABOUT  RICHARD  WAGNER 

truthful  as  it  may  be  in  parts.  Nor  should  he 
call  our  attention  to  the  posthumous  venom  of 
the  composer  as  expressed  in  his  hateful  remarks 
concerning  Otto  Wesendonk.  There  Wagner 
was  his  own  Mime,  his  own  Alberich,  not  the 
knightly  hero  who  would  not  woo  the  fair  Irish 
maid  till  magic  did  melt  his  will.  Richard 
Wagner  was  once  Tristan. 


316 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
MY  FIRST  MUSICAL  ADVENTURE 

MUSIC-MAD,  I  arrived  in  Paris  during  the 
last  weeks  of  the  World's  Fair  of  1878,  impelled 
there  by  a  parching  desire  to  see  Franz  Liszt, 
if  not  to  hear  him.  He  was  then  honorary  di 
rector  of  the  Austro-Hungarian  section.  But 
I  could  not  find  him,  although  I  heard  of  him 
everywhere,  of  musical  fetes  and  the  usual 
glittering  company  that  had  always  surrounded 
this  extraordinary  son  of  fortune.  One  day 
I  fancied  I  saw  him.  I  was  sadly  walking  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli  of  an  October  afternoon,  when 
in  a  passing  carriage  I  saw  an  old  chap  with 
bushy  white  hair,  his  face  full  of  expressive 
warts,  and  in  his  mouth  a  long  black  cigar, 
which  he  was  furiously  puffing.  Liszt!  I 
gasped,  and  started  in  pursuit.  It  was  not  an 
easy  job  to  keep  up  with  the  carriage.  At 
last,  because  of  a  blocked  procession,  I  caught 
up  and  took  a  long  stare,  the  object  of  which 
composedly  smiled  at  me,  but  did  not  truly 
convince  me  that  he  was  Franz  Liszt.  You 
see  there  were  so  many  different  pictures  of 
him;  even  the  warts  were  not  always  the  same 
in  number.  When  I  am  in  the  Cambyses  vein 
I  swear  I've  seen  Liszt.  Perhaps  I  did. 


MY  FIRST  MUSICAL  ADVENTURE 

Liszt  or  no  Liszt,  my  ambition  was  fired, 
and  at  the  advice  of  Frederick  Boscovitz,  a 
pupil  of  Liszt  and  cousin  of  Rafael  Joseffy, 
I  went  to  the  Conservatoire  National*,  with 
a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  acting  secretary, 
Emile  Rety.  I  was  told  that  I  was  too  old  to 
enter,  being  a  few  months  past  eighteen.  I 
was  disappointed  and  voiced  my  woes  to  Lucy 
Hamilton  Hooper,  then  a  clever  writer  and 
correspondent  of  several  American  newspapers. 
Her  husband  was  Vice-Consul  Robert  Hooper 
and  he  kindly  introduced  me  to  General  Fair- 
child,  the  consul,  and  after  a  cross-examination 
I  was  given  a  letter  in  which  the  United  States 
Government  testified  to  my  good  social  stand 
ing  (I  was  not  a  bandit,  nor  yet  an  absconder 
from  justice)  and  extreme  youth.  Armed  with 
this  formidable  document,  I  again  besieged  the 
gates  of  the  great  French  conservatoire  — 
whose  tuition,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  free. 
I  was  successful,  inasmuch  as  I  was  permitted 
to  present  myself  at  the  yearly  examina 
tion,  which  took  place  November  13  (ominous 
date).  To  say  that  I  studied  hard  and  shook 
in  my  boots  is  a  literal  statement.  I  lived  at 
the  time  in  an  alley-like  street  off  the  Boulevard 
des  Batignolles  and  lived  luxuriously  on  five 
dollars  a  week,  eating  one  satisfying  meal  a 
day  (with  a  hot  bowl  of  coffee  in  the  morning) 
and  practising  on  a  wretched  little  cottage  piano 
as  long  as  my  neighbours  would  stand  the  noise. 
They  chucked  boots  or  any  old  faggot  they  could 


MY  FIRST  MUSICAL  ADVENTURE 

find  at  my  door,  and  after  twelve  hours  I  was  so 
tired  of  patrolling  the  keyboard  that  I  was  glad 
to  stop.  Then,  a  pillow  on  my  stomach  to  keep 
down  the  pangs  of  a  youthfully  gorgeous  appe 
tite,  I  would  lie  in  bed  till  dinner-time.  O 
Chopin !  0  consomme  and  boiled  beef !  0  sour 
blue  wine  at  six  cents  the  litre ! 

At  last  the  fatal  day  dawned,  as  the  novelists 
say.  It  was  nasty,  chilling,  foggy  autumnal, 
but  my  long  locks  hung  negligently  and  my 
velveteen  coat  was  worn  defiantly  open  to  the 
wind.  I  reached  the  Conservatoire  —  then  in 
the  old  building  on  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  Pois- 
soniere  —  at  precisely  nine  o'clock  of  the  morn. 
I  was  put  in  a  large  room  with  an  indiscriminate 
lot  of  candidates,  some  of  them  so  young  as 
to  be  fit  for  the  care  of  a  nurse.  Like  lost  sheep 
we  huddled  and  as  my  eyes  feverishly  rambled 
I  noticed  a  lad  of  about  twelve  with  curling 
hair  worn  artist  fashion;  a  naughty  haughty 
boy  he  was,  for  he  sneered  at  my  lengthy  legs 
and  audibly  inquired:  "Is  grandpa  to  play 
with  us!"  I  knew  enough  French  to  hate  that 
little  monster  with  a  nervous  hatred.  There 
was  a  tightened  feeling  about  my  throat  and 
heart  and  I  waited  in  an  agitated  spirit  for  my 
number.  A  bearded  and  shy  young  man  came 
in  from  examination  and  was  at  once  mocked  by 
the  incipient  virtuoso  in  pantalettes.  Another 
unfortunate,  with  a  roll  of  music!  Then  the 
little  devil  was  summoned.  We  sat  up.  In  ten 
minutes  he  returned  with  downcast  mien,  flushed 


MY  FIRST  MUSICAL  ADVENTURE 

face,  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  tried  to  sneak  out  of 
the  room,  but  too  late.  After  shaking  hands  all 
round  we  solemnly  danced  in  a  circle  about  the 
now  sobbing  and  no  longer  sinister  child.  Who 
says  youth  is  ever  generous? 

" Number  thirteen!"  sang  out  a  voice,  and 
I  was  pushed  through  a  narrow  entry  and  a 
minute  later  was  standing  on  the  historic  stage 
of  the  Paris  Conservatoire.  The  lighting  was 
dim,  but  I  discerned  a  group  of  persons  some 
where  in  front  of  me.  A  man  asked  me  to  sit 
down  at  the  grand  piano  —  of  course,  like  most 
pianos,  out  of  tune  —  and  I  tremblingly  obeyed 
his  polite  request.  At  this  juncture  a  woman's 
voice  inquired:  "How  old  are  you,  monsieur?" 
I  told  her.  A  feminine  laugh  rippled  through 
the  gloom,  for  I  wore  a  fluffy  little  beard,  was 
undeniably  gawky,  and  looked  conspicuously 
older  than  my  years.  That  laugh  settled  me. 
Queer,  creepy  feelings  seized  my  legs,  my  eyes 
were  full  of  solar  spectrums,  my  throat  a  furnace 
and  my  heart  beat  like  a  triphammer.  I  was 
not  the  first  man,  young  or  old,  to  be  knocked 
out  by  a  woman's  laugh.  (Later  I  met  the 
lady.  She  was  Madame  Massart,  and  the  wife 
of  the  well-known  violin  master,  Massart,  of 
the  Conservatoire.)  Again  the  demand,  "Play 
something."  It  was  a  foregone  conclusion  that 
I  couldn't.  I  began  a  minuetto  from  a  Bee 
thoven  Sonata,  hesitated,  saw  fiery  snakes  and 
a  kaleidoscope  of  comets,  then  pitched  into  a 
presto  by  the  unfortunate  Beethoven,  and  was 
320 


MY  FIRST  MUSICAL  ADVENTURE 

soon  stopped.  A  sheet  of  manuscript  was 
placed  before  me.  I  could  have  sworn  that  it 
was  upside  down,  so  as  a  sight-reading  test  it 
was  a  failure.  I  was  altogether  a  distinguished 
failure,  and  with  the  audible  comment  of  the 
examining  faculty  ringing  in  my  ears,  I  stumbled 
across  the  stage  into  welcome  darkness,  and 
without  waiting  to  thank  Secretary  Rety  for 
his  amiability  I  got  away,  crossing  in  a  hurry 
that  celebrated  courtyard  in  which  the  hideous 
noises  made  by  many  instruments,  including 
the  human  voice,  reminded  me  of  a  torture 
circle  in  Dante's  Inferno. 

The  United  States  had  no  reason  to  be  proud 
of  her  musical  —  or  unmusical  —  son  that  dull 
day  in  November,  1878.  When  I  arrived  in 
my  garret  I  swore  I  was  through  and  seriously 
thought  of  studying  the  xylophone.  But  my 
mood  of  profound  discouragement  was  suc 
ceeded  by  a  more  hopeful  one.  If  you  can't 
enter  the  Paris  Conservatoire  as  an  active  stu 
dent  you  may  have  influence  enough  to  be 
come  an  "auditeur,"  a  listener;  and  a  listener 
I  became  and  in  the  class  of  Professor  Georges 
Mathias,  a  genuine  pupil  of  Chopin.  My  musical 
readers  will  understand  my  good  luck.  From 
that  spiritual  master  I  learned  many  things 
about  the  Polish  composer;  heard  from  his 
still  supple  ringers  much  music  as  Chopin  had 
interpreted  it.  Delicate  and  discriminating  in 
style,  M.  Mathias  had  never  developed  into 
a  brilliant  concert  pianist;  sometimes  he  pro- 
321 


MY  FIRST  MUSICAL  ADVENTURE 

duced  effects  on  the  keyboard  that  sounded 
like  emotional  porcelain  falling  from  a  high 
shelf  and  melodiously  shattering  on  velvet  mir 
rors.^  He  also  taught  me  that  if  a  pianist 
or  violinist  or  singer  is  too  nervous  before  the 
public,  then  he  or  she  has  not  a  musical  voca 
tion—the  case  of  Adolf  Henselt  to  the  con 
trary  notwithstanding.  But  better  would  it 
be  for  me  to  admit  that  I  failed  because  I  didn't 
will  earnestly  enough  to  succeed. 


322 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND 
YESTERYEAR 

WITH  the  hair  of  the  horse  and  the  entrails 
of  the  cat,  magicians  of  the  four  strings  weave 
their  potent  spells.  What  other  instrument 
devised  by  the  hand  of  man  has  ever  approached 
the  violin?  Gladstone  compared  it  with  the 
locomotive;  yet  complete  as  is  the  mechanism 
of  the  wheeled  monster,  its  type  is  transitional; 
steam  is  already  supplanted  by  electricity; 
while  the  violin  is  perfection,  as  perfect  as  a 
sonnet,  and  in  its  capacity  for  the  expression 
of  emotion  next  to  the  human  voice;  indeed 
it  is  even  more  poignant.  Orchestrally  massed, 
it  can  be  as  terribly  beautiful  as  an  army  with 
banners.  In  quartet  form  it  represents  the 
very  soul  of  music;  it  is  both  sensuous  and  intel 
lectual.  The  modern  grand  pianoforte  with 
its  great  range,  its  opulence  of  tone,  its  deli 
cacy  of  mechanism  is,  nevertheless,  a  monster 
of  music  if  placed  beside  the  violin,  with  its 
simple  curves,  its  almost  primitive  method  of 
music-making.  The  scraping  of  one  substance 
against  another  goes  back  to  prehistoric  times, 
nay,  may  be  seen  in  the  grasshopper  and  its 
ingenious  manner  of  producing  sound.  But 
323 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

the  violin,  as  we  know  it  to-day,  is  not  such  an 
old  invention;  it  was  the  middle  of  the  six 
teenth  century  before  it  made  its  appearance, 
with  its  varnished  and  modelled  back. 

Restricted  as  is  its  range  of  dynamics,  the 
violin  has  had  for  its  votaries  men  of  such  widely 
differing  temperaments  as  Paganini  and  Spohr, 
Wilhelmj  and  Sarasate,  Joachim  and  Ysaye. 
Its  literature  does  not  compare  with  that  of 
the  piano,  for  which  Bach,  Beethoven,  Schu 
mann,  Chopin,  and  Brahms  have  written  their 
choicest  music,  yet  the  intimate  nature  of  the 
violin,  its  capacity  for  passionate  emotion, 
crowns  it  —  and  not  the  organ,  with  its  me 
chanical  tonal  effects  —  as  the  king  of  instru 
ments.  Nor  does  the  voice  make  the  peculiar 
appeal  of  the  violin.  Its  lowest  note  is  the  G 
below  the  treble  clef,  and  its  top  note  a  mere 
squeak;  but  it  seems  in  a  few  octaves  to  have 
imprisoned  within  its  wooden  walls  a  minia 
ture  world  of  feeling;  even  in  the  hands  of  a 
clumsy  amateur  it  has  the  formidable  power 
of  giving  pain;  while  in  the  grasp  of  a  master 
it  is  capable  of  arousing  the  soul. 

No  other  instrument  has  the  ecstatic  quality; 
neither  the  shallow-toned  pianoforte,  nor  the 
more  mellow  and  sonorous  violoncello.  The 
angelic,  demoniacal,  lovely,  intense  tones  of 
the  violin  are  without  parallel  in  music  or 
nature.  It  is  as  if  this  box  with  four  strings 
across  its  varnished  belly  had  a  rarer  nervous 
system  than  all  other  instruments.  It  is  a 
324 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

cry,  a  shriek,  a  hymn  to  heaven,  a  call  to  arms, 
an  exquisite  evocation,  a  brilliant  series  of 
multi-coloured  visions,  a  broad  song  of  passion, 
or  mocking  laughter  —  what  cannot  the  violin 
express  if  the  soul  that  guides  it  be  that  of  an 
artist?  Otherwise,  it  is  only  a  fiddle.  It  is 
the  hero,  the  heroine,  the  vanguard  of  every 
composition.  As  a  solo  instrument  in  a  con 
certo,  its  still  small  voice  is  heard  above  the 
din  and  thunder  of  the  accompaniment.  In 
a  word,  this  tiny  music-box  is  the  ruler  among 
instruments. 

Times  have  changed  since  1658  in  England, 
when  the  following  delightful  ordinance  was 
made  for  the  benefit  of  musical  genius,  or  other 
wise: 

"And  be  it  enacted  that  if  any  person  or 
persons,  commonly  called  Fiddlers,  or  min 
strels,  shall  at  any  time  after  the  said  first  of 
July  be  taken  playing,  fiddling,  or  making 
music  in  any  inn,  alehouse  or  tavern,  or  shall 
be  proffering  themselves,  or  desiring,  or  en 
treating  any  person  or  persons  to  hear  them 
play  .  .  .  shall  be  adjudged  rogues,  vagabonds, 
and  sturdy  beggars." 

Decidedly,  England  was  not  then  the  abode  of 
the  muses,  for  the  poor  actor  suffered  in  com 
pany  with  the  musician.  You  wonder  whether 
this  same  penalty  would  be  imposed  upon 
musical  managers  .  .  .  they  certainly  do  "en 
treat"  the  public  to  listen  to  their  "fiddlers." 
Yet  in  1690  when  Corelli,  the  father  of  violin 
32S 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

playing,  led  the  band  at  Cardinal  Ottoboni's 
house  in  Rome,  he  stopped  the  music  because 
his  churchly  patron  was  talking,  and  he  made 
an  epigram  that  has  since  served  for  other 
artists:  "Monsignore,"  remarked  this  intrepid 
musician,  when  asked  why  the  band  had  ceased, 
"I  feared  the  music  might  interrupt  the  con 
versation."  How  well  Liszt  knew  this  anec 
dote  may  be  recalled  by  his  retort  to  a  czar  of 
Russia  under  similar  circumstances. 

Until  a  few  months  ago  I  had  not  heard 
Eugene  Ysaye  play  for  years.  In  the  old  days 
he  had  enchanted  my  ears,  and  in  company 
with  Gerardy,  the  violoncellist  and  Pugno  the 
pianist  had  made  music  fit  for  the  gods.  Con 
sidering  the  flight  of  the  years,  I  found  the  art 
of  the  Belgian  comparatively  untouched.  Like 
Liszt,  like  Paderewski,  Ysaye  has  his  good 
moments  and  his  indifferent.  He  is  the  Pa 
derewski  of  the  strings  in  his  magical  inter 
pretations.  And  unlike  his  younger  contem 
poraries,  he  still  carves  out  the  whole  block  of 
the  great  classics,  sonatas,  and  concertos.  He 
plays  little  things  tenderly,  exquisitely,  and 
the  man  is  first  the  musician,  then  the  vir 
tuoso. 

I  heard  neither  Paganini  nor  Spohr.  Joachim, 
Wilhelmj,  Wieniawski,  and  Ysaye  I  have  heard 
and  seen.  My  memory  assures  me  of  keener 
satisfactions  than  any  book  about  these  giants 
of  the  four  strings  could  give  me.  The  first  vi 
olinist  I  ever  listened  to  was  in  the  early  seven- 

326 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

ties.  I  was  hardly  at  the  age  of  musical  dis 
crimination.  Yet  I  remember  much.  It  was 
at  the  opera,  a  matinee  in  the  Philadelphia 
Academy  of  Music.  Nilsson  was  singing.  I 
can't  recall  her  on  that  occasion,  though  it 
seems  only  the  other  day  when  Carlotta  Patti 
sang  the  Queen  of  the  Night  in  The  Magic 
Flute,  and  limped  over  the  stage  —  possibly 
the  lameness  fixed  the  event  in  my  mind  more 
than  the  music. 

A  "front"  set  was  dropped  between  the  acts 
at  this  particular  matinee  —  I  do  not  recollect 
the  name  of  the  opera  —  and  through  a  "prac 
ticable"  door  came  an  old  gentleman  with  a 
violin  in  his  hands.  He  was  white-haired,  he 
wore  white  side-whiskers,  and  he  looked  to  my 
young  eyes  like  a  prosperous  banker.  He 
played.  It  was  as  the  sound  of  falling  waters 
on  a  moonlight  night.  I  asked  the  name  of 
the  old  gentleman.  My  father  said,  "Henri 
Vieux temps,"  which  told  me  nothing  then, 
though  it  means  much  to  me  now.  What  did 
he  play?  I  do  not  know.  Yet  whenever  I 
hear  the  younger  men  attack  his  Fantaisie 
Caprice,  his  Ballade  and  Polonaise,  his  Con 
certos,  I  think  proudly:  "I  have  heard  Vieux- 
temps!"  He  was  a  Belgian,  born  1820,  died 
1 88 1.  His  style  was  finished,  elegant,  charming. 
He  was  a  pupil  of  De  Beriot  and  represented, 
with  his  master,  perfection  in  the  Belgian 
school. 

After  an  interval  of  some  years,  I  heard  the 
327 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

only  pupil  of  Paganini,  as  he  called  himself, 
Camillo  Sivori.  It  was  in  Paris,  1879.  The 
precise  day  I  can't  say  but  my  letter  from 
Paris  which  appeared  in  the  Philadelphia  Eve 
ning  Bulletin  was  dated  January  31,  1879.  I 
still  preserve  it  in  a  venerable  scrap-book.  I 
was  in  my  'teens  but  I  wrote  with  the  courage 
of  youthful  ignorance  as  follows:  (It  almost 
sounds  like  a  musical  criticism.)  "Although 
it  was  generally  supposed  that  Sivori,  the  great 
violinist,  would  not  play  this  season  in  Paris, 
he,  nevertheless  delighted  a  large  audience, 
last  Sunday,  at  the  Concert  Populaire,  with 
his  lovely  music.  He  is  no  longer  a  young  man, 
but  the  vigour  and  fire  of  his  playing  are  im 
mense.  He  gave,  with  the  orchestral  accom 
paniment,  a  Berceuse,  his  own  composition, 
with  unapproachable  delicacy.  It  was  played 
throughout  with  the  mute.  In  contrast  came 
a  Mouvement  Perpetuel.  Sivori's  tone  is  not 
like  that  of  Joachim  or  Wilhelmj,  but  it  is  sweeter 
than  either.  It  reminds  one  of  gold  drawn  to 
cobweb  fineness.  As  an  encore  he  played  the 
too  well  known  Carnival  of  Venice.  That  it 
was  given  in  the  style  of  his  illustrious  master, 
Paganini,  who  may  say?  But  it  was  amazing, 
painful,  finally  tiresome."  That  same  season 
I  heard  Anna  Bock,  Boscovitz,  Diemer,  Plante, 
Theodore  Ritter,  the  two  Jaells,  fat  Alfred  and 
his  thin  wife. 

Sivori    (1815-1894),    dapper,   modest,   stood 
up  in  the  vast  spaces  of  the  Cirque  d'Hiver, 

328 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

which  was  engaged  every  Sunday  by  Jacques 
Pasdeloup  and  his  orchestra.  (Jacob  Wolfgang 
was  the  real  name  of  this  conductor  who  braved 
the  wrath  of  his  audiences  by  putting  Wagner 
on  his  programmes;  and  one  afternoon  we  had 
a  pitched  battle  over  Rimsky-KorsakofFs  Sym 
phonic  Poem,  Sadko.)  Sivori  played  a  taran 
tella;  every  tone  was  clearly  heard  in  the  great, 
crowded  auditorium.  Pupils  of  De  Beriot  and 
Paganini  I  have  heard,  though  I  hardly  recall 
the  style  of  the  former  and  nothing  of  the  latter. 
But  there  was  little  of  Paganini's  fiery  attack 
in  Sivori;  possibly  he  was  too  old.  Fire  and 
fury  I  later  found  in  Wieniawski. 

I  must  not  omit  the  name  of  Ole  Bull  (1810- 
1880),  for,  though  I  heard  him  as  a  boy,  I  best 
remember  him  in  1880,  when  he  gave  his  last 
concerts  in  America.  In  the  fifties,  while  on  a 
visit  to  my  father's  house,  he  went  on  his  two 
thumbs  around  a  dining-table,  lifting  his  body 
clear  from  the  ground.  His  muscular  power 
was  remarkable.  It  showed  in  the  dynamics 
of  his  robust  and  sentimental  playing.  Spohr 
discouraged  him  as  a  boy,  but  later  spoke  of 
his  "wonderful  playing  and  sureness  of  his 
left  hand;  unfortunately,  like  Paganini,  he 
sacrifices  what  is  artistic  to  something  that  is 
not  quite  suitable  to  the  noble  instrument. 
His  tone,  too,  is  bad.  .  .  ."  For  Spohr  any 
one's  tone  was,  naturally  enough,  bad,  as  he 
possessed  the  most  monumental  tone  that  ever 
came  from  a  violin. 

329 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

The  truth  is  that  Ole  Bull  was  not  a  classical 
player;  as  I  remember  him,  he  could  not  play 
in  strict  tempo;  like  Chopin,  he  indulged  in 
the  rubato  and  abused  the  portamento.  But 
he  knew  his  public.  America  a  half-century 
ago,  particularly  in  the  regions  he  visited, 
was  not  in  the  mood  for  sonatas  or  concertos. 
Old  Dan  Tucker  and  the  Arkansaw  Traveller 
were  the  mode.  Bull  played  them  both,  played 
jigs  and  old  tunes,  roused  the  echoes  with  the 
Star  Spangled  Banner  and  Irish  melodies.  He 
played  such  things  beautifully,  and  it  would 
have  been  musical  snobbery  to  say  that  you 
didn't  like  them.  You  couldn't  help  yourself. 
The  grand  old  fellow  bewitched  you.  He  was 
a  handsome  Merlin,  with  a  touch  of  the  char 
latan  and  a  touch  of  Liszt  in  his  tall,  willowy 
figure,  small  waist,  and  heavy  head  of  hair. 
Such  white  hair!  It  tumbled  in  masses  about 
his  kindly  face  like  one  of  his  native  Norwegian 
cataracts.  He  was  the  most  picturesque  old 
man  I  ever  saw  except  Walt  Whitman,  at  that 
time  a  steady  attendant  of  the  Carl  Gaertner 
String  Quartet  concerts  in  Philadelphia.  (And 
what  Walt  didn't  know  about  music  he  made 
up  in  his  love  for  stray  dogs;  he  was  seldom 
without  canine  company.) 

Those  were  the  days  when  Prume's  La  Me- 
lancolie  and  Wieniawski's  Legende  were  the 
two  favourite,  yet  remote,  peaks  of  the  stu 
dent's  repertoire.  How  we  loved  them  !  Then 
came  Wieniawski  with  Rubinstein  in  1872-1873, 
330 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

and  such  violin  playing  America  had  never 
before  heard  —  nor  has  it  since,  let  me  hasten 
to  add.  This  Pole  (1835-1880)  was  a  brilliant 
master.  His  dash  and  fire  and  pathos  carried 
you  off  your  feet.  His  tone  at  times  was 
like  molten  metal.  He  had  a  caressing  and 
martial  bow.  His  technique  was  infallible,  his 
temperament  truly  Slavic,  languorous,  subtle, 
fierce.  Wieniawski  always  reminded  me  of 
a  red-hot  coal.  How  chivalric  is  his  Polonaise 

—  that  old  war-horse !     How    elegiac  his  Le- 
gende !    His  favourite  pupil  was  Leopold  Lich- 
tenberg,  the  greatest  violin  talent  that  has  been 
thus  far  unearthed  in  America.     Lichtenberg 
had  everything  when  a  youth  —  temperament, 
brains,  musical    feeling,   and    great    technical 
ability. 

After  Wieniawski  followed  Wilhelmj,  who 
did  not  efface  his  memory,  but  plunged  one 
into  another  atmosphere;  that  of  the  calm, 
profound,  untroubled,  and  classic.  No  doubt 
Spohr's  tone  was  larger,  yet  this  is  difficult  to 
believe.  Wilhelmj  drew  from  his  instrument 
the  noblest  sounds  I  ever  heard;  not  Joachim, 
not  Ysaye  excelled  him  in  cantabile.  He  was 
the  first  to  play  Wagner  transcriptions  —  no 
wonder  Wagner  made  him  leader  of  the  strings 
at  Bayreuth  in  1876.  How  he  read  the  Bee 
thoven  Concerto,  the  Bach  Chaconne.  Or  the 
D  flat  Nocturne  of  Chopin  —  in  D.  Or  the 
much  abused  Mendelssohn  E  Minor  Concerto 

—  with   Max   Vogrich   accompanying   him   at 

331 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

the  piano.  A  giant  in  physique,  when  he  faced 
his  audience  there  was  something  of  the  ma 
jestic,  fair-haired  god  Wotan  in  his  immobile 
posture.  He  never  appealed  to  his  public  as 
did  Wieniawski;  there  was  always  something 
of  chilly  grandeur  and  remoteness  in  Wil- 
helmj's  play.  The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  at 
Marienbad,  shortly  before  his  death,  where,  a 
stooped-shouldered,  grey-haired  old  man,  he 
was  taking  a  Kur.  He  walked  slowly,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  in  his  eyes  the  vacant 
look  of  one  busy  with  memories.  He  reminded 
me  of  Beethoven's  pictures. 

Joseph  Joachim,  that  mighty  Hungarian, 
was  past  his  prime  when  I  heard  him  in  Lon 
don.  He  played  out  of  tune  —  some  of  his 
pupils  have  imitated  his  failing  —  but  whether 
in  a  Beethoven  quartet,  concerto,  sonata  with 
piano,  he  always  stamped  on  your  consciousness 
that  Joseph  Joachim  was  the  greatest  violinist 
that  had  ever  lived.  This  is,  of  course,  absurd, 
this  unfair  comparison  of  one  artist  with  an 
other.  Yet  it  is  human  to  compare,  and  if  a 
violinist  can  evoke  such  a  vision  of  perfection, 
then  he  must  be  of  uncommon  powers.  Maud 
Powell,  a  distinguished  pupil  of  Joachim,  has 
asserted  that  it  took  her  three  years  before  she 
could  recover  herself  in  the  presence  of  Joachim's 
overwhelming  personality.  Yet  he  struck  me  as 
not  at  all  assertive.  He  seemed  an  "objective" 
player,  i.  e.,  you  thought  only  of  Beethoven,  of 
Brahms,  as  he  calmly  delivered  himself  of  their 
332 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

Olympian  measures.  The  grand  manner  is  now 
out  of  fashion.  We  care  more  for  exotic  rhetoric 
than  for  simple  and  lofty  measures.  Sarasate 
and  Dengremont  charmed  me  more;  Wieniawski 
set  my  blood  coursing  faster;  but  in  Joachim's 
presence  I  felt  as  if  near  some  old  Grecian 
temple  hallowed  by  the  presence  of  oft-wor 
shipped  gods. 

Remenyi  was  a  puzzle.  He  could  play  di 
vinely,  and  scratch  diabolically.  He  belonged 
to  that  old  romantic  school  in  which  pose  and 
gesture,  contortion  and  grimace  occupied  a 
prominent  place.  I  had  an  opportunity  to 
study  Remenyi  (whose  Austrian  name  was 
Hoffman)  (1830-1898),  at  close  quarters.  He 
brought  to  my  father's  house  in  the  early  eighties 
his  favourite  instruments,  and  such  a  wild 
night  of  music  I  never  heard.  He  played  hour 
after  hour,  everything  from  Bach  to  Brahms 
—  and  incidentally  scolded  Brahms  for  "steal 
ing"  some  of  his,  Remenyi's,  Hungarian  dances ! 
(Which  is  a  joke,  as  Brahms  only  followed 
the  examples  of  Liszt  and  Joachim  in  avowedly 
employing  Hungarian  folk  melodies).  He  did 
such  tricks  as  dashing  off  in  impeccable  tune 
his  arrangement  of  the  D  Flat  Valse  of  Chopin 
in  double  notes  at  a  terrific  tempo.  Violinists 
will  understand  the  feat  when  I  tell  them 
that  the  key  was  the  original  one  —  D  flat. 
He  made  the  walls  shiver  when  he  struck  his 
bow  dangerously  in  the  opening  chords  of  the 
Rackoczy  March.  What  a  hero  then  seemed 
333 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

this  stout,  little,  prancing,  baldheaded  man 
with  the  face  of  an  unfrocked  priest.  How  he 
could  talk  in  a  half-dozen  different  languages; 
he  had  travelled  enough  and  encountered  enough 
celebrated  people  to  fill  a  dozen  volumes  with 
his  recollections.  He  was  a  violinist  of  un 
questionable  power;  that  he  deteriorated  in 
his  later  years  was  to  have  been  expected. 
Liszt  understood  and  appreciated  Remenyi 
from  the  first;  he  nicknamed  him  "the  Kos- 
suth  of  the  Fiddle." 

To  recall  all  the  celebrities  of  the  violin  I 
have  heard  since  1870  would  be  hardly  possible. 
I've  forgotten  most  of  them,  though  I  do  re 
member  that  wonderful  boy,  Maurice  Den- 
gremont,  who  ended  his  life,  so  rich  in  pos 
sibilities,  it  is  said  as  a  billiard  marker.  He  was 
spoiled  by  women,  for  he  was  a  comely  lad. 
Another  wonder-child  kept  his  head,  and  to 
day  fascinating  Fritz  Kreisler  is  a  master  of 
masters  and  a  favourite  in  America  without 
peer.  He  first  appeared  at  Boston  and  in  1888. 
In  Paris  I  recall  Marsick  and  his  polished  style; 
the  gallant  Sauret,  Johannes  Wolf,  and  the 
brilliant  and  elegant  Timothee  Adamowski. 
And  in  1880,  Marie  Tayau  and  her  woman 
quartet,  a  member  of  which  was  Jeanne  Franko, 
the  sister  of  the  conductors  and  violinists, 
Sam  Franko  and  Nahan  Franko;  Caesar  Thom 
son,  the  miraculous;  C.  M.  Loeffler  —  subtle 
player,  subtle  composer;  Sarasate  with  his 
sweet  tone;  Brodsky  and  his  masculine  manner; 
334 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

Willy  Burmester  and  his  pallid  pyrotechnics; 
the  learned  Schradieck,  the  Bohemian  Ondricek, 
the  dashing  Ovide  Musin,  Bernhard  Liste- 
mann,  Carl  Halir;  Gregorowitsch,  the  languid; 
brilliant  Marteau;  Alexander  Petschinikoff,  the 
Russian;  the  musicianly  Max  Bendix;  the 
astonishing  John  Rhodes,  the  wonder-worker 
Kubelik  and  his  icy  perfections;  Kocian,  Willy 
Hess,  Efrem  Zimbalist,  Albert  Spalding,  Ar 
thur  Hartman,  and  a  myriad  of  spoiled  youths, 
Von  Veczsey,  Horszowski  —  all  have  crossed 
the  map  of  my  memory.  And  Franz  Kneisel 
and  the  Kneisel  Quartet,  dispensers  of  musical 
joys  for  decades,  but  alas!  no  more.  Alas! 
I  would  not  barter  memories  of  their  music- 
making  for  a  wilderness  of  virtuosi.  I  must 
not  forget  Joseph  White,  the  Cuban  violinist, 
who  was  with  Theodore  Thomas  one  season. 
His  style  was  finished  and  Parisian.  He  was 
a  mulatto  and  a  handsome  man.  The  night 
I  heard  him  he  played  the  Mendelssohn  con 
certo,  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  slow  move 
ment  his  chanterelle  broke.  Calmly  he  took 
concert  master  Richard  Arnold's  proffered  in 
strument  and  triumphantly  finished  the  com 
position. 

Three  violinists  abide  clear  in  my  recollec 
tion:  Wieniawski,  Wilhelmj,  and  Ysaye.  The 
last  named  is  dearer  because  nearer,  con 
trary  to  the  supposed  rule  that  the  older  the 
thing  the  worse  it  is.  Ysaye  is  the  magician 
of  the  violin.  He  holds  us  in  a  spell  with  that 
335 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

elastic,  curving  bow  of  his,  with  those  many 
coloured  tones,  tender,  silky,  sardonic,  amorous, 
rich,  and  ductile.  He  interprets  the  classics 
as  well  as  the  romantics;  Bach,  Beethoven, 
Brahms;  Vieux temps  as  well  as  Sibelius.  Above 
all  else,  his  mastery  of  the  violin's  technical 
mysteries,  looms  his  musical  temperament. 
He  has  imagination. 

I  have  reserved  the  women  for  the  last.  A 
goodly,  artistic  company.  It  is  not  necessary 
to  go  back  to  the  Milanolla  sisters.  We  still 
cherish  remembrances  of  Camilla  Urso  and  her 
broad  musicianly  manner;  the  finished  style 
of  Normann-Neruda,  Maris  Soldat,  the  gifted 
and  unhappy  Anna  Senkrah,  Nettie  Carpenter, 
Teresina  Tua  —  who  did  not  become  a  "Fiddle 
Fairy"  when  she  visited  us  in  1887  —  Leonora 
Jackson,  Dora  Becker,  Olive  Mead,  and  Maud 
Powell.  In  Europe  many  years  ago,  I  heard 
Marcella  Sembrich,  who,  after  playing  the  E 
Flat  Polonaise  of  Chopin  on  the  piano,  picked 
up  a  violin  and  dashed  off  the  Wieniawski  Pol 
onaise;  these  feats  were  followed  by  songs,  one 
being  Viardot-Garcia's  arrangement  of  Chopin's 
D  Major  Mazourka.  Sembrich  is  the  blue  rose 
among  great  singers.  Gericke,  Paur,  Nikisch 
were  at  first  violinists;  so  was  Fritz  Scheel,  late 
conductor  of  the  Philadelphia  Symphony  Or 
chestra.  Franz  Kneisel  is  a  conductor  of  great 
skill;  so  is  Frederick  Stock,  who  followed 
Theodore  Thomas  as  conductor  of  the  Chicago 
Symphony  Orchestra.  Theodore  Spiering  for- 
336 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

merly  concert-master  of  the  Philharmonic  or 
chestra  proved  himself  an  excellent  conductor. 
But  that  a  little  Polish  woman  could  handle 
with  ease  two  instruments  and  sing  like  an  angel 
besides,  borders  on  the  fantastic.  Geraldine 
Morgan  is  an  admirable  violin  artiste  who  plays 
solo  as  well  as  quartet  with  equal  authority. 

Maud  Powell  has  fulfilled  her  early  promise. 
She  is  a  mature  artiste,  one  who  will  never  be 
finished  because  she  will  always  study,  always 
improve.  A  Joachim  pupil,  she  is,  neverthe 
less,  a  pupil  of  Maud  Powell,  and  her  playing 
reveals  breadth,  musicianship,  beauty  of  tone 
and  phrasing.  She  is  our  greatest  American 
violin  virtuosa. 

I  wrote  this  of  Mischa  Elman  (the  first  of 
the  many  Mischas  and  Jaschas  who  mew  on 
the  fiddle  strings)  after  I  heard  him  play  in 
London:  " United  to  an  amazing  technical 
precision  there  is  a  still  more  amazing  emo 
tional  temperament,  all  dominated  by  a  power 
ful  musical  and  mental  intellect,  uncanny  in 
one  not  yet  out  of  his  teens.  What  need  to 
add  that  his  conception  of  Beethoven  is  neither 
as  lovely  as  Kreisler's  nor  as  fascinating  as 
Ysaye's  ?  Elman  will  mature.  In  the  romantic 
or  the  virtuoso  realm  he  is  past  master.  His 
tone  is  lava-like  in  its  warmth.  He  paints  with 
many  colours.  He  displays  numberless  nuances 
of  feeling.  The  musical  in  him  dominates  the 
virtuoso.  Naturally,  the  pride  of  hot  youth 
asserts  itself,  and  often,  self-intoxicated,  he 
337 


VIOLINISTS  NOW  AND  YESTERYEAR 

intoxicates  his  audiences  with  his  sensuous, 
compelling  tone.  Hebraic,  tragic,  melancholy, 
the  boisterousness  of  the  Russian,  the  swift 
modulation  from  mad  caprice  to  Slavic  despair 
—  Elman  is  a  magician  of  many  moods.  When 
I  listen  to  him  I  almost  forget  Ysaye."  Yet 
when  I  heard  Ysaye  play  last  season  it  was 
Elman  that  I  forgot  for  the  moment.  After 
all,  a  critic,  too,  may  have  his  moods.  And 
now  comes  another  conqueror,  the  lad  Jasha 
Heifetz  from  Russia,  a  pupil  of  Leopold  Auer 
and  an  artist  of  such  extraordinary  attainments 
that  the  greatest  among  contemporary  violin 
ists  —  is  it  necessary  to  mention  names  ?  — 
have  said  of  him  that  his  art]  begins  where 
theirs  ends,  and  that  they  will  shut  up  shop 
when  he  plays  here.  All  of  which  is  a  flatter 
ing  tribute,  but  it  has  been  made  before.  Heif 
etz,  however,  may  be  the  dark  horse  in, the 
modern  riddle  sweepstakes. 


338 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

ONCE  Swinburne,  in  a  Baudelaire  mood, 
sang:  "Shall  no  new  sin  be  born  for  men's 
troubles?"  And  it  was  an  Asiatic  potentate 
who  offered  a  prize  for  the  discovery  of  a  new 
pleasure.  Or  was  it  a  sauce  ? 

Mankind  soon  wearies.  The  miracles  of 
yesteryear  are  the  commonplaces  of  to-day. 
Steam,  telegraphy,  electric  motors,  wireless, 
and  now  wireless  telephony  are  accepted  as 
a  matter  of  course  by  the  man  in  the  street. 
How  stale  will  seem  woman  suffrage  and  pro 
hibition  after  they  have  conquered.  In  the 
world  of  art  conditions  are  analogous.  The 
cubist  nail  drove  out  the  impressionist,  and 
the  cubist  will  vanish  if  the  futurist  hammer 
is  sufficiently  heavy. 

Nevertheless,  there  is  a  novel  sensation  in 
store  for  those  who  make  a  first  flight  through 
the  air.  I  don't  mean  in  a  balloon,  whether 
captive  or  free;  in  the  case  of  the  former,  a 
trip  to  the  top  of  the  Washington  Monument 
or  the  Eiffel  Tower  will  suffice;  and  while  I 
rode  in  a  Zeppelin  at  Berlin  in  1912  (100  marks, 
or  about  $25,  was  the  tariff)  and  saw  Pots 
dam  at  my  feet,  yet  I  was  unsatisfied.  The 
passengers  sat  in  a  comfortable  salon,  ate, 
339 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

drank,  even  smoked.  The  travelling  was  so 
smooth  as  to  suggest  an  inland  lake  on  a  summer 
day.  No  danger  was  to  be  apprehended.  The 
monster  air-ship  left  its  hangar  and  returned  to 
it  on  schedule  time.  The  entire  trip  lacked 
the  flavour  of  adventure.  And  that  leads  me 
to  a  personal  confession. 

I  am  not  a  sport.  In  my  veins  flows  sporting 
blood,  but  only  in  the  Darwinian  sense  am  I 
a  "sport,"  a  deviation  from  the  normal  his 
tory  of  my  family,  which  has  always  been  de 
voted  to  athletic  pleasures.  A  baseball  match 
in  which  carnage  ensues  is  a  mild  diversion  for 
me.  I  can't  understand  the  fury  of  the  contest. 
I  yawn,  though  the  frenzied  enthusiasm  of  the 
spectators  interests  me.  I  have  fallen  asleep 
over  a  cricket  match  at  Lord's  in  London,  and 
the  biggest  bore  of  all  was  a  Sunday  afternoon 
bull-fight  in  Madrid.  It  was  such  a  waste  of 
potential  beefsteaks.  Prize-fights  disgust,  shell 
races  are  puerile,  football  matches  smack  of 
obituaries.  As  for  golf  —  that  is  a  prelude  to 
senility,  or  the  antechamber  to  an  undertaker's 
establishment. 

The  swiftness  of  film  pictures  has  set  a  new 
metronomic  standard  for  modern  sports.  I 
suppose  playing  Bach  fugues  on  the  keyboard 
is  as  exciting  a  game  as  any;  that  is,  for  those 
who  like  it.  A  four- voiced  polyphony  at  a 
good  gait  is  positively  hair-raising.  It  beats 
poker.  All  this  is  a  preliminary  to  my  little  tale. 

Conceive  me  as  an  elderly  person  of  generous 
340 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

waist  measurement,  slightly  reckless  like  most 
near-sighted  humans;  this  recklessness  is  psy 
chical.  Safety  first,  and  I  always  watch  my 
step;  painful  experience  taught  me  years  ago 
the  perils  that  lurk  in  ambush  for  a  Johnny- 
look-in-the-air. 

Flying  in  heavier-than-air  machines  fas 
cinated  me.  The  fantastic  stories  of  H.  G. 
Wells  were  ever  a  joy.  When  the  Argonauts 
of  the  Air  appeared,  flying  was  practically  as 
sured,  although  a  Paris  mathematician  had 
demonstrated  with  ineluctable  logic  that  it 
was  impossible;  as  proved  a  member  of  the 
Institute  a  century  earlier  that  birds  couldn't 
fly.  It  was  an  illusion.  Well,  the  Wrights 
flew,  even  if  Langley  did  not  —  Langley,  the 
genuine  father  of  the  aeroplane. 

Living  so  long  in  France  and  Belgium,  I  had 
grown  accustomed  to  the  whirring  of  aerial 
motors,  a  sound  not  unlike  that  of  a  motor- 
boat  or  the  buzzing  of  a  sawmill.  I  became 
accustomed  to  this  drone  above  the  house 
tops,  and  since  my  return  to  America  I  have 
often  wondered  why  in  the  land  where  the  aero 
plane  first  flew,  so  little  public  interest  was 
manifested.  To  be  sure,  there  are  aero  clubs, 
but  they  never  fly  where  the  interest  of  the 
greater  public  can  be  intrigued.  Either  there 
is  a  hectic  excitement  over  some  record  broken 
or  else  the  aviator  sulks  in  his  tent.  Is  the 
money  devil  at  the  bottom  of  the  trouble? 
Sport  for  sport's  sake,  like  art  for  art's  sake, 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

is  rarely  encountered.  The  government  has 
taken  up  flying,  but  that  is  for  pragmatic  pur 
poses.  The  aeroplane  as  a  weapon  of  defence, 
not  the  aeroplane  as  a  new  and  agreeable  plea 
sure.  We  are  not  a  disinterested  nation;  even 
symphony  concerts  and  opera  and  the  salva 
tion  of  souls  are  commercial  propositions.  Else 
would  our  skies  be  darkened  by  flying  machines 
instead  of  smoke,  and  our  churches  thronged 
with  aviators. 

Walking  on  the  famous  and  fatiguing  Board 
walk  of  Atlantic  City  I  suddenly  heard  a  familiar 
buzzing  in  the  air  and  looked  up.  There  it 
was,  a  big  flying  boat  like  a  prehistoric  dragon 
fly,  speeding  from  the  Inlet  down  to  the  mil 
lion-dollar  pier.  Presently  there  were  two  of 
them  flying,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  in  a  civilised 
land.  On  the  trolleys  were  signs:  "See  the 
Flying  Boats  at  the  Inlet!"  I  did,  the  very 
next  morning.  I  had  no  notion  of  being  a  pas 
senger.  I  was  not  tempted  by  the  thought. 
But  as  Satan  finds  work  for  idle  hands,  I  lounged 
down  the  beach  to  the  Kendrick  biplane,  and 
stared  my  full  at  its  slender  proportions.  A 
young  man  in  a  bathing-suit  explained  to  me 
the  technique  of  flying,  and  insinuated  that 
hundreds  and  hundreds  had  flown  during  the 
season  without  accident.  Afternoon  saw  me 
again  on  the  sands,  an  excited  witness  of  a 
flight;  excited  because  I  stood  behind  the 
motor  when  it  was  started  for  a  preliminary 
try  out  —  "tuning  up"  is  the  slang  phrase  of 
342 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

the  profession  —  and  the  cyclonic  gale  blew 
my  hat  away,  loosened  my  collar,  and  made 
my  teeth  chatter. 

Such  a  tornadic  roar !  I  firmly  resolved  that 
never  would  I  trust  myself  in  such  a  devil's 
contrivance.  Why,  it  was  actually  riding  the 
whirlwind  —  and,  perhaps,  reaping  a  watery 
grave.  What  else  but  that?  On  a  blast  of 
air  you  sail  aloft  and  along.  When  the  air 
ceases  you  drop  (less  than  forty-five  miles  an 
hour).  And  this  in  a  flimsy  box  kite.  Never 
for  me!  Not  to-day,  baker,  call  to-morrow 
with  a  crusty  cottage !  as  we  used  to  say  in  dear 
old  "Lunnon"  years  ago.  Nevertheless,  the 
poison  was  in  my  veins;  cunningly  it  began  to 
work.  I  saw  a  passenger,  a  fat  man,  weighing 
two  hundred  and  four  pounds  —  I  asked  for 
the  figures  —  trussed  up  like  a  calf  in  the  arms 
of  a  slight,  muscular  youth,  who  carried  him  a 
limp  burden  and  deposited  him  on  a  seat  in 
the  prow  of  the  boat.  I  turned  my  head  away. 
I  am  not  easily  stirred  —  having  reported 
musical  and  theatrical  happenings  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century  —  but  the  sight  of  that  stout  male, 
a  man  and  a  brother  (I  didn't  know  him  from 
Adam),  evoked  a  chord  of  pity  in  my  breast. 
I  felt  that  I  would  never  set  eyes  again  on  this 
prospective  food  for  fishes.  I  quickly  left  the 
spot  and  returned  to  my  hotel,  determined  to 
say,  "  Retro  me,  Sathanas!"  if  that  personage 
should  happen  to  show  me  his  hoofs,  horns, 
and  hide. 

343 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

But  he  did  not.  The  devil  is  a  subtle  beast. 
He  had  simply  set  jangling  the  wires  of  sugges 
tion,  and  my  nerves  accomplished  the  rest. 
One  morning,  a  few  days  later,  I  awoke  parched 
with  desire.  I  drank  much  strong  tea  to  steady 
me  and  smoked  unremittingly.  Again,  during 
the  early  afternoon,  I  found  myself  up  the 
beach.  "My  feet  take  hold  on  hell,"  I  said  to 
myself,  but  it  was  only  hot  sand.  I  teased 
myself  with  speculations  as  to  whether  the 
game  was  worth  the  candle  —  yes,  I  had  got 
that  far,  traversing  a  vast  mental  territory 
between  the  No-Sayer  and  the  Yes-Sayer. 
I  was  doomed,  and  I  knew  it  when  I  began  to 
circle  about  the  machine. 

Courteously  the  bonny  youth  explained  mat 
ters.  It  was  a  Glenn  H.  Curtiss  hydro-aero 
plane,  furnished  with  one  of  the  new  Cur 
tiss  engines  of  ninety  horse-power,  capable  of 
flying  seventy  to  ninety  miles  an  hour,  of  lift 
ing  four  hundred  pounds,  and  weighing  in  all 
about  a  ton.  Was  it  safe?  Were  the  taut, 
skinny  piano  wires  that  manipulated  the  steer 
ing-gear  and  the  plane  durable?  Didn't  they 
ever  snap?  Of  course  they  were  durable,  and, 
of  course,  they  occasionally  snapped.  What 
then  ?  Why,  you  drop,  in  spiral  fashion  —  vol 
plane  —  charming  vocable !  But  if  the  engine  ? 
—  same  thing.  You  would  come  to  earth, 
rather  water,  as  naturally  as  a  child  takes  the 
breast.  Nothing  to  fear. 

Young  Beryl  Kendrick  is  an  Atlantic  City 
344 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

product  —  he  was  a  professional  swimmer  and 
life-guard  —  and  will  look  after  you.  The  price 
is  fifteen  dollars;  formerly  twenty-five  dollars, 
but  competition,  which  is  said  to  be  the  life  of 
trade,  had  operated  in  favour  of  the  public. 
Rather  emotionally  I  bade  my  man  good  day, 
promising  to  return  for  a  flight  the  next  morn 
ing,  a  promise  I  certainly  did  not  mean  to 
keep.  This  stupendous  announcement  he  re 
ceived  coolly.  Flying  to  him  was  a  quotidian 
banality. 

And  then  I  noticed  that  the  blazing  sun  had 
become  darkened.  Was  it  an  eclipse,  or  were 
some  horrid,  monstrous  shapes  like  the  sup 
posititious  spindles  spoken  of  by  Langley  devour 
ing  the  light  of  our  parent  planet?  No,  it  was 
the  chamber  of  my  skull  that  was  full  of  shadows. 
The  obsession  was  complete.  I  would  go  up, 
but  I  must  suffer  terribly  in  the  interim. 

Why  should  I  fly  and  pay  fifteen  good  shekels 
for  the  unwelcome  privilege?  I  computed  the 
cost  of  various  beverages,  and  as  a  consoling 
thought  recalled  Mark  Twain's  story  of  the 
Western  editor  who,  missing  from  his  accus 
tomed  haunts,  was  later  found  serenely  drunk, 
passionately  reading  to  a  group  of  miners  from 
a  table  his  lantern-illuminated  speech,  in  which 
he  denounced  the  cruel  raw  waste  of  grain  in 
the  making  of  bread  when  so  many  honest 
men  were  starving  for  whisky.  Yet  did  I  feel 
that  I  would  not  begrudge  my  hard-earned 
royalties  (I'm  not  a  best-seller),  and  thus  tor- 
345 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

merited  between  the  devil  of  cowardice  and  the 
deep  sea  of  curiosity  I  retired  and  dreamed  all 
night  of  fighting  strange  birds  that  attacked 
me  in  an  aeroplane. 

I  shan't  weary  you  with  the  further  analy 
sis  of  my  soul-states  during  this  tempestuous 
period.  I  ate  a  light  breakfast,  swallowed  much 
tea.  Then  I  resolutely  went  in  company  with 
a  friend,  and  we  boarded  an  Inlet  car.  I  had 
the  day  previous  resorted  to  a  major  expedient 
of  cowards.  I  had  said,  so  as  to  bolster  up  my 
fluttering  resolution,  that  I  was  going  to  fly; 
an  expedient  that  seldom  misses,  for  I  should 
never  have  been  able  to  face  the  chief  clerk, 
the  head  waiter,  or  the  proprietor  at  the  hotel 
if  I  failed  to  keep  my  promise. 

" Boaster!  Swaggerer!"  I  muttered  to  my 
self  en  route.  "Now  are  you  satisfied?  Thou 
tremblest,  carcass!  Thou  wouldst  tremble 
much  more  if  thou  knewest  whither  I  shall 
soon  lead  thee!"  I  quoted  Turenne,  and  I 
was  beginning  to  babble  something  about 
Icarus  —  or  was  it  Phaeton,  or  Simon  Magus  ? 
—  brought  to  earth  in  the  Colosseum  by  a 
prayer  from  the  lips  of  Saint  Peter  —  when  we 
arrived.  How  I  hated  the  corner  where  we 
alighted.  It  seemed  mean  and  dingy  and  sinister 
in  the  dazzling  sunlight  —  a  red-hot  Saturday, 
September  n,  1915,  and  the  hour  was  10.30 
A.  M.  A  condemned  criminal  could  not  have 
noted  more  clearly  every  detail  of  the  life  he 
was  about  to  quit.  We  ploughed  through  the 
346 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

sand.  We  reached  the  scaffold  —  at  least  it 
looked  like  one  to  me.  "Hello,  here's  a  church. 
Let's  go  in,"  I  felt  like  exclaiming  in  sheer  des 
peration,  remembering  Dickens  and  Mr.  Wem- 
mick.  I  would  have,  such  was  my  blue  funk, 
quoted  Holy  Scripture  to  the  sandlopers,  but  I 
hadn't  the  chance. 

I  asked  my  friend,  and  my  voice  sounded 
steady  enough,  whether  the  wind  and  weather 
seemed  propitious  for  flying.  Never  better 
was  the  reply,  and  my  heart  went  down  to  my 
boots.  I  really  think  I  should  have  escaped 
if  a  stout  man  with  a  piratical  moustache  hadn't 
approached  me  and  asked:  "Going  up  to 
day?"  I  marvelled  at  his  calmness,  and  wished 
for  his  instant  dissolution,  but  I  gave  an  affirma 
tive  shake  of  the  head.  Cornered  at  last!  Hand 
ing  my  watch,  hat,  and  wallet  to  my  friend,  I 
coldly  awaited  the  final  preparations.  I  had 
forgotten  my  ear  protector,  but  cotton-wool 
would  answer  the  purpose  of  making  me  par 
tially  deaf  to  the  clangorous  vibration  of  the 
propeller  blades  —  which  resemble  in  a  magni 
fied  shape  the  innocent  air-fans  of  offices  and 
cafes.  I  essayed  one  more  joke  —  true  gallows 
humour  —  before  I  was  led  like  a  lamb  (a  tough 
one)  to  the  slaughter.  I  asked  an  attendant 
to  whom  I  had  paid  the  official  fee  if  my  widows 
would  be  refunded  the  money  in  case  of  acci 
dent;  but  this  antique  and  tasteless  witticism 
was  indifferently  received,  as  it  deserved. 
Finally  the  young  man  gave  me  a  raincoat, 
347 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

grabbed  me  around  the  waist,  and  bidding  me 
clasp  his  neck  he  carried  me  out  into  shallow 
water  and  sat  me  beside  the  air-pilot,  who 
looked  like  a  mere  lad  in  his  bathing-clothes. 
My  hand  must  have  been  trembling  (ah,  that 
old  piano  hand),  for  he  inquiringly  eyed  me. 
The  motor  was  screaming  as  we  flew  through 
the  water  toward  the  Inlet.  I  hadn't  courage 
of  mind  to  make  a  farewell  signal  to  my  com 
panion.  Too  late,  we're  off !  I  thought,  and  at 
once  my  trepidation  vanished. 

I  had  for  some  unknown  reason,  possibly 
because  of  absolute  despair,  suffered  a  rich 
sea-change.  We  churned  the  waves.  I  saw 
tiny  sails  studding  the  deep  blue.  Men  fished 
from  the  shore.  As  we  neared  the  Inlet,  where 
a  shambling  wooden  hotel  stands  on  the  sandy 
point,  the  sound  of  the  motor  grew  intenser. 
We  began  to  lift,  not  all  at  once,  but  gradu 
ally.  Suddenly  her  nose  poked  skyward,  and 
the  boat  climbed  the  air  with  an  ease  that  was 
astonishing.  No  shock.  No  jerkiness.  We 
simply  glided  aloft  as  if  the  sky  were  our  na 
tive  heath  —  you  will  pardon  the  Hibernicism 
—  and  as  if  determined  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
round  blazing  sun  bathing  naked  in  the  bril 
liant  blue.  And  with  the  mounting  ascent  I 
became  unconscious  of  my  corporeal  vesture. 
I  had  become  pure  spirit.  I  feared  nothing. 
The  legend  of  angels  became  a  certainty.  I 
was  on  the  way  to  the  Fourth  Dimensional 
vista.  I  recalled  Poincare's  suggestion  that 
348 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

there  is  no  such  thing  as  matter;  only  holes  in 
the  ether.  Nature  embracing  a  vacuum  in 
stead  of  abhorring  it.  A  Swiss  cheese  universe. 
Joseph  Conrad  has  said  "  Man  on  earth  is  an 
unforeseen  accident  which  does  not  stand  close 
investigation."  But  man  in  the  air?  Man 
is  destined  to  wings.  Was  I  not  proving  it? 
Flying  is  the  sport  of  gods,  and  should  be  of 
humans  now  that  the  motor-car  is  become 
slightly  " promiscuous." 

The  Inlet  and  thoroughfare  at  my  feet  were 
a  network  of  silvery  ribbons.  The  heat  was 
terrific,  the  glare  almost  unbearable.  But  I 
no  longer  sneezed.  Aviation  solves  the  hay- 
fever  problem.  The  wind  forced  me  to  clench 
my  teeth.  We  were  hurled  along  at  seventy 
miles  an  hour,  and  up  several  thousand  feet, 
yet  below  the  land  seemed  near  enough  to 
touch.  As  we  swung  across  the  masts  of  yachts 
I  wondered  that  we  didn't  graze  them  —  so 
elusive  was  the  crystal  clearness  of  the  at 
mosphere,  a  magic  mirror  that  made  the  remote 
contiguous.  The  mast  of  the  sunken  schooner 
hard  by  the  sand-bar  looked  like  a  lead-pencil 
one  could  grasp  and  write  a  message  to  Mars. 

Hello!  I  was  become  lyrical.  It  is  inescapable 
up  in  the  air.  The  blood  seethes.  Ecstasy  sets 
in ;  the  kinetic  ecstasy  of  a  spinning- top.  I  gazed 
at  the  pilot.  He  twisted  his  wheel  nonchalantly 
as  if  in  an  earthly  automobile.  I  looked  over 
the  sides  of  the  cedar  boat  and  was  not  giddy, 
for  I  had  lived  years  at  the  top  of  an  apartment- 
349 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

house,  ten  stories  high,  from  which  I  daily 
viewed  policemen  killing  time  on  the  sidewalks; 
besides,  I  have  strong  eyes  and  the  stomach  of 
a  drover.  Therefore,  no  giddiness,  no  nausea. 
Only  exaltation  as  we  swooped  down  to  lower 
levels.  Atlantic  City,  bizarre,  yet  meaningless, 
outrageously  planned  and  executed,  stretched 
its  ugly  shape  beneath  us;  the  most  striking 
objects  were  the  exotic  hyphenated  hotel,  with 
its  Asiatic  monoliths  and  dome,  and  its  vast, 
grandiose  neighbour,  a  mound  of  concrete,  the 
biggest  hotel  in  the  world.  The  piers  were 
salient  silhouettes.  A  checker-board  seemed 
the  city,  which  modulated  into  a  tremendous 
arabesque  of  ocean  and  sky.  I  preferred  to 
stare  seaward.  The  absorbent  cotton  in  my 
ears  was  transformed  into  gun-cotton,  so  ex 
plosive  the  insistent  drumming  of  the  motor- 
engine.  Otherwise,  we  flew  on  even  keel,  only 
an  occasional  dip  and  a  sidewise  swing  remind 
ing  me  that  I  wasn't  footing  the  ordinary  high 
way.  The  initial  intoxication  began  to  wear 
off,  but  not  the  sense  of  freedom,  a  glorious 
freedom;  truly,  mankind  will  not  be  free  till 
all  fly. 

Alas!  though  we  become  winged  we  remain 
mortal.  We  may  shed  our  cumbersome  pe 
destrian  habits,  but  we  take  up  in  the  air  with 
us  our  petty  souls.  I  found  myself  indulging 
in  very  trite  thoughts.  What  a  pity  that  war 
should  be  the  first  to  degrade  this  delightful 
and  stimulating  sport!  Worse  followed.  Why 
350 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

couldn't  I  own  a  machine?  Base  envy,  you 
see.  The  socialistic  leaven  had  begun  to  work. 
No  use;  we  shall  remain  human  even  in  heaven 
or  hell. 

I  have  been  asked  to  describe  the  sensation 
of  flying.  I  can't.  It  seems  so  easy,  so  natural. 
If  you  have  ever  dreamed  of  flying,  I  can  only 
say  that  your  dream  will  be  realised  in  an 
aeroplane.  Dreams  do  come  true  sometimes. 
(Curiously  enough,  I've  not  dreamed  of  flying 
since.)  But  as  there  is  an  end  even  to  the 
most  tedious  story,  so  mine  must  finish. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  the  engine  ceased. 
The  silence  was  thrilling,  almost  painful.  And 
then  in  huge  circles,  as  if  we  were  descending 
the  curves  of  an  invisible  corkscrew,  we  came 
down,  the  bow  of  the  flying  boat  pointing  at 
an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  Still  no  diz 
ziness,  only  a  sense  of  regret  that  the  trip  was 
so  soon  over.  It  had  endured  an  eternity,  but 
occupied  precisely  twenty-one  minutes. 

We  reached  the  water  and  settled  on  the 
foam  like  a  feather.  Then  we  churned  toward 
the  beach;  again  I  was  carried,  this  time  on 
to  solid  land,  where  I  had  ridiculous  trouble 
in  getting  the  cotton  from  my  harassed  ear 
drums.  Perhaps  my  hands  were  unsteady, 
but  if  they  were,  my  feet  were  not. 

I  reached  the  Inlet  via  the  Boardwalk,  mak 
ing  record  time,  and  drew  the  first  happy  sigh 
in  a  week  as  I  sat  down,  lighted  a  cigar,  and 
twiddled  my  fingers  at  a  waiter.  Even  if  I 


RIDING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

had  enjoyed  a  new  pleasure  I  didn't  propose 
to  give  up  the  old  ones.  Then  my  nerves !  And 
when  I  meet  Gabriele  d'Annunzio  I  can  look 
him  in  the  eye.  He  flew  over  Trieste,  but  I 
flew  over  my  fears  —  a  moral  as  well  as  a  physi 
cal  victory  for  a  timid  conservative. 


352 


CHAPTER  XXX 
PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 

(From  the  editorial  page  of  the  New  York  Sunt 
December  31,  1916) 

IT  is  a  holy  and  wholesome  thought  to  pray 
for  the  dead  that  they  may  be  loosed  from  their 
sins;  and  it  is  as  holy  a  prayer  that  begs  from 
the  god  of  chance  his  pity  for  the  living.  Aye ! 
it  is  those  who  are  about  to  live,  not  to  die, 
that  we  should  salute.  Life  is  the  eternal  slayer; 
death  is  but  the  final  punctuation  of  the  vital 
paragraph.  Life  is  also  the  betrayer.  A  cos- 
mical  conspiracy  of  deception  encircles  us.  We 
call  it  Maya,  and  flatter  our  finite  sense  of 
humour  that  we  are  no  longer  entrapped  by 
the  shining  appearance  of  things  when  we  say 
aloud:  Stay,  thou  art  so  subtle  that  we  know 
you  for  what  you  are  —  the  profoundest  in 
stinct  of  life:  its  cruel  delight  in  pretending 
to  be  what  it  is  not.  We  are  now,  all  of  us  who 
think  that  we  think,  newly  born  Fausts  with 
eyes  unbandaged  of  the  supreme  blinders, 
Time  and  Space.  Nature  clothes  the  skeleton 
in  a  motley  suit  of  flesh,  but  our  supersharp- 
ened  ears  overhear  the  rattling  of  the  bones. 
We  are  become  so  wise  that  love  itself  is  no 
longer  a  sentiment,  only  a  sensation;  religion 
353 


PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 

is  first  cousin  to  voluptuousness;  and  if  we 
are  so  minded  we  may  jig  to  the  tune  of  the 
stars  up  the  dazzling  staircase,  and  sneer  at 
the  cloud-gates  of  the  infinite  inane.  Naught 
succeeds  like  negation,  and  we  swear  that  in 
the  house  of  the  undertaker  it  is  impolite  to 
speak  of  shrouds.  We  are  nothing  if  not  de- 
terminists.  And  we  believe  that  the  devil  de 
serves  the  hindmost. 

We  live  in  order  to  forget  life.  For  our  deli 
cate  machinery  of  apperception  there  is  no 
longer  right  or  wrong;  vice  and  virtue  are  the 
acid  and  alkali  of  existence.  And  as  too  much 
acid  deranges  the  stomach,  so  vice  corrodes 
the  soul,  and  thus  we  are  virtuous  by  compul 
sion.  Yet  we  know  that  evil  serves  its  purpose 
in  the  vast  chemistry  of  being,  and  if  banished 
the  consequences  might  not  be  for  universal 
good;  other  evils  would  follow  in  the  train  of 
a  too  comprehensive  mitigation,  and  our  end 
a  stale  swamp  of  vain  virtues.  Resist  not  evil ! 
Which  may  mean  the  reverse  of  what  it  seems 
to  preach.  The  master  modern  immoralist 
has  said:  Embrace  evil!  that  we  may  be  over 
and  done  with  it.  Toys  are  our  ideals;  glory, 
goodness,  wealth,  health,  happiness;  all  toys 
except  health;  health  of  the  body,  of  the  soul. 
And  the  first  shall  be  last. 

The  human  soul  in  health?     But  there  is 

no  spiritual  health.    The  mystic,  Doctor  Tauler, 

has  said:    "God  does  not  reside  in  a  vigorous 

body";   sinister;  nevertheless,  equitable.     The 

354 


PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 

dolorous  certitude  that  the  most  radiant  of 
existences  ends  in  the  defeat  of  disease  and 
death;  that  happiness  is  relative,  a  word  empty 
of  meaning  in  the  light  of  experience,  and  non 
existent  as  an  absolute;  that  the  only  divine 
oasis  in  our  feverish  activities  is  sleep;  sleep 
the  prelude  to  the  profound  and  eternal  silence 
—  why  then  this  gabble  about  soul-states  and 
the  peace  that  passeth  all  understanding? 
Simply  because  the  red  corpuscles  that  rule  our 
destinies  are,  when  dynamic,  mighty  breeders 
of  hope;  if  the  powers  and  principalities  of 
darkness  prevail,  our  guardian  angels,  the 
phagocytes,  are  dominated  by  the  leucocytes. 
Gods  and  devils,  Ormuzd  and  Ahriman,  and 
other  phantasms  of  the  sky,  may  all  be  put 
on  a  microscopic  slide  and  their  struggles  noted. 
And  the  evil  ones  are  ever  victors  in  the  dia 
bolical  game.  No  need  to  insist  on  it.  In  the 
heart  of  mankind  there  is  a  tiny  shrine  with 
its  burning  taper;  the  idol  is  Self;  the  propi 
tiatory  light  is  for  subliminal  foes.  Alas!  in 
vain.  We  succumb,  and  in  our  weakness  we 
sink  into  the  grave.  If  only  we  were  sure  of 
the  River  Styx  afterward  we  should  pay  the 
ferry- tax  with  joy.  Better  Hades  than  the 
poppy  of  oblivion.  "  Ready  to  be  anything  in 
the  ecstasy  of  being  ever,"  as  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  sagely  remarks. 

The  pious  and  worthy  Doctor  Jeremy  Taylor, 
who  built  cathedral-like  structures  of  English 
prose  to  the  greater  glory  of  God  and  for  the 
355 


PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 

edification  of  ambitious  rhetoricians,  has  dwelt 
upon  the  efficacy  of  prayer  in  a  singularly  lu 
minous  passage:  "Holy  prayer  procures  the 
ministry  and  services  of  angels.  It  rescinds 
the  decrees  of  God.  It  cures  sickness  and  ob 
tains  pardon.  It  arrests  the  sun  in  its  course 
and  stays  the  wheels  of  the  chariot  of  the  moon. 
It  rules  over  all  God's  creatures  and  opens  and 
shuts  the  storehouses  of  rain.  It  unlocks  the 
cabinet  of  the  womb  and  quenches  the  violence 
of  fire.  It  stops  the  mouths  of  lions  and  recon 
ciles  our  sufferance  and  weak  faculties  with 
the  violence  of  torment  and  sharpness  of  persecu 
tion.  It  pleases  God  and  supplies  all  our  needs. 
But  prayer  that  can  do  this  much  for  us  can  do 
nothing  at  all  without  holiness,  for  God  heareth 
not  sinners,  but  if  any  man  be  a  worshipper  of 
God  and  doth  His  will,  him  He  heareth." 

It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  Taylor,  per 
haps  the  greatest  English  prose-master  save 
John  Milton,  was  a  stickler  for  good  works 
as  well  as  faith.  He  was  considered  almost 
heterodox  because  of  his  violence  of  speech 
when  the  subject  of  death-bed  repentance  be 
came  a  topic  of  discussion;  indeed,  his  bishop 
remonstrated  with  him  because  of  his  stiff- 
necked  opinions.  To  joust  through  life  as  at 
a  pleasure  tournament  and  when  the  dews  of 
death  dampen  the  forehead  to  call  on  God  in 
your  extremity  seemed  to  this  eloquent  divine 
an  act  of  slinking  cowardice.  Far  better  face 
the  evil  one  in  a  defiant  spirit  than  knock  for 

356 


PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 

admittance  at  the  back  door  of  paradise  and 
try  to  sneak  by  the  winged  policeman  into  a 
vulgar  bliss:  unwon,  unhoped  for,  undeserved. 
Therefore  the  rather  startling  statement,  "God 
heareth  not  sinners,"  read  in  the  light  of  Bishop 
Taylor's  fervent  conception  of  man's  duty, 
hath  its  justification. 

But  this  atmosphere  of  proverbial  common 
places  and  " inspissated  gloom"  should  not  be 
long  maintained  when  the  coursers  of  the  sun 
are  plunging  southward  in  the  new  year;  when 
the  Huntsman  is  up  at  Oyster  Bay  and  "they 
are  already  past  their  first  sleep  in  Persia." 
What  a  bold  and  adventurous  piece  of  nature 
is  man;  yet  how  he  stares  at  life  as  a  frowning 
entertainment.  Why  must  we  "act  our  antip 
odes"  when  "all  Africa  and  her  prodigies  are 
in  us"?  Ergo,  let  us  be  cheerful.  God  is  with 
the  world.  Let  us  pray  that  during  the  en 
suing  year  no  rust  shall  colour  our  soul  into  a 
dingy  red.  Let  us  pray  for  the  living  that  they 
may  be  loosed  from  their  politics  and  see  life 
steadily  and  whole. 

Let  us  pray  that  we  may  not  take  it  on  our 
selves  to  feel  holier  than  our  neighbours.  Let 
us  pray  that  we  be  not  cursed  with  the  itching 
desire  to  reform  our  fellows,  for  the  way  of  the 
reformer  is  hard,  and  he  always  gets  what  he 
deserves:  the  contempt  of  his  fellow  men.  He 
is  usually  a  hypocrite.  Let  us  pray  that  we 
are  not  struck  by  religious  zeal;  religious  people 
are  not  always  good  people;  good  people  are 
357 


PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 

not  envious,  jealous,  penurious,  censorious,  or 
busybodies,  or  too  much  bound  up  in  the 
prospect  of  the  mote  in  their  brother's  eye 
and  unmindful  of  the  beam  in  their  own. 
Furthermore,  good  people  do  not  unveil  with 
uncharitable  joy  the  faults  of  women.  Have 
faith.  Have  hope,  and  remember  that  charity 
is  as  great  as  chastity. 

Let  us  pray  for  the  misguided  folk  who,  for 
getful  of  Mother  Church,  her  wisdom,  her  con 
solations,  flock  to  the  tents  of  lewd,  itinerant, 
mumbo-jumbo  howlers,  that  blaspheme  the 
sacred  name  as  they  epileptically  leap,  shouting 
glory-kingdom-come  and  please  settle  at  the 
captain's  office. 

Though  they  run  on  all  fours  and  bark  as 
hyenas,  they  shall  not  enter  the  cky  of  the 
saints,  being  money-changers  in  the  Temple, 
and  tripe-sellers  of  souls.  Better  Tophet  and 
its  burning  pitch  than  a  wilderness  of  such 
apes  of  God.  Some  men  and  women  of  culture 
and  social  position  indorse  these  sorry  buffoons, 
the  apology  for  their  paradoxical  conduct  being 
any  port  in  a  storm;  any  degrading  circus,  so 
it  be  followed  by  a  mock  salvation.  But  salva 
tion  for  whom?  What  deity  cares  for  such 
foaming  at  the  mouth,  such  fustian?  Con 
version  is  silent  and  comes  from  within,  and 
not  to  the  din  of  brass-bands  and  screaming 
hallelujahs.  It  takes  all  sorts  of  gods  to  make 
the  cosmos,  but  why  return  to  the  antics  and 
fetishes  of  our  primate  ancestors,  the  cave- 

358 


PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 

dwellers?  This  squirming  and  panting  and 
brief  reform  "true  religion"?  On  the  con 
trary  it  is  a  throwback  to  bestiality,  to  the 
vilest  instincts.  A  "soul"  that  has  to  be  saved 
by  such  means  is  a  soul  not  worth  the  saving. 
To  the  discard  with  it,  where,  flaming  in  pur 
gatorial  fires,  it  may  be  refashioned  for  future 
reincarnation  on  some  other  planet. 

Abuse  of  drink  is  to  be  deplored,  but  Pro 
hibition  is  more  enslaving  than  alcohol.  Pagan 
ism  in  its  most  exotic  forms  is  preferable  to 
this  prize-ring  Christianity.  One  may  be 
zealous  without  wallowing  in  debasing  super 
stition.  Again,  let  us  pray  for  these  imbeciles 
and  for  the  charlatans  who  are  blinding  them. 
Neither  arts  and  sciences  nor  politics  and  phi 
losophies  will  save  the  soul.  The  azure  route 
lies  beyond  the  gates  of  ivory  and  the  gates  of 
horn. 

Let  us  pray  for  our  sisters,  the  suffragettes, 
who  are  still  suffering  from  the  injustice  of 
Man,  now  some  million  of  years.  Let  us  pray 
that  they  be  given  the  ballot  to  prove  to  them 
its  utter  futility  as  a  cure-all.  With  it  they 
shall  be  neither  happier  nor  different.  Once 
a  woman,  always  a  martyr.  Let  them  not  be 
deceived  by  illusive  phrases.  If  they  had  not 
been  oppressed  they  would  to-day  be  "free"! 
Alas !  free  from  their  sex  ?  Free  from  the  burden 
of  family?  Free  like  men  to  carry  on  the  rude 
labours  of  this  ruder  earth?  To  what  pur 
pose?  To  become  second-rate  men,  when 
359 


PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 

nature  has  endowed  them  with  qualities  that 
men  vainly  emulate,  vainly  seek  to  evoke  their 
spirit  in  the  arts  and  literature!  Ages  past 
woman  should  have  attained  that  impossible 
goal,  oppression  or  no;  in  fact,  adversity  has 
made  man  what  he  is  —  and  woman,  too.  Pray, 
that  she  may  not  be  tempted  by  the  mirage 
into  the  desert,  there  to  perish  of  thirst  for  the 
promised  land.  Nearly  a  century  ago  George 
Sand  was  preaching  the  equality  of  the  sexes, 
and  rightly  enough.  What  has  come  of  it? 
The  vote?  Political  office?  Professions,  busi 
ness  opportunities?  Yes,  all  these  things,  but 
not  universal  happiness.  Woman's  sphere  — 
stale  phrase!  —  is  any  one  she  hankers  after; 
but  let  her  not  deceive  herself.  Her  future 
will  strangely  resemble  her  past. 

William  Dean  Howells  was  not  wrong  when 
he  wrote:  Woman  has  only  her  choice  in  self- 
sacrifice.  And  sometimes  not  even  the  choosing. 
Why?  Why  are  eclipses?  Why  are  some  men 
prohibitionists?  Why  do  hens  cluck  after 
laying  eggs?  Let  us  pray  for  warring  women 
that  their  politically  ambitious  leaders  may 
no  longer  dupe  them  with  fallacious  promises 
—  surely  a  "pathetic  fallacy."  But,  then, 
females  rush  in  where  fools  fear  to  tread. 

And  lastly,  beloved  sisters  and  brothers, 
let  us  heartily  pray  that  our  imperial  democ 
racy  (or  is  it  a  democratic  empire?),  our  pluto 
cratic  republic  (or  should  we  say  republican 
plutocracy?)  may  be  kept  from  war;  avoid 

360 


PRAYERS  FOR  THE  LIVING 

"the  drums  and  tramplings  of  three  conquests." 
But  by  the  Eternal  Jehovah,  God  of  battles, 
if  we  are  forced  to  fight,  then  let  us  fight  like 
patriotic  Americans,  .and  not  gently  coo,  like 
pacifists  and  other  sultry  south  winds.  A 
billion  for  " preparedness,"  but  not  a  penny 
for  "pork,"  say  we. 

And  by  the  same  token  let  us  pray  that 
those  thundering  humbugs  and  parasites  who 
call  themselves  labour  leaders  —  the  blind  lead 
ing  the  blind  —  for  ever  vanish.  Because  of 
their  contumacious  acts  and  egregious  bam 
boozling  of  their  victims,  because  of  their  false 
promises  of  an  earthly  paradise  and  a  golden 
age,  they  deserve  the  harshest  condemnation. 

Like  certain  Oriental  discourses,  our  little 
Morality  which  began  in  the  mosque  has  ram 
bled  not  far  from  the  tavern.  Nevertheless, 
let  us  pray  for  the  living  as  well  as  the  dead. 
Oremus ! 


361 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

What  some  distinguished  writer*  have  said  of 
them  : 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  wrote,  May  15,  1905:  "Do 
you  know  that  'Iconoclasts'  is  the  only  book  of  high 
and  universal  critical  worth  that  we  have  had  for 
years — to  be  precise,  since  Georg  Brandes.  It  is  at 
once  strong  and  fine,  supple  and  firm,  indulgent  and 
sure." 

And  of  "Ivory  Apes  and  Peacocks"  he  said,  among 
other  things:  "I  have  marvelled  at  the  vigilance  and 
clarity  with  which  you  follow  and  judge  the  new  liter 
ary  and  artistic  movements  in  all  countries.  I  do  not 
know  of  criticism  more  pure  and  sure  than  yours." 
(October,  1915.) 


Of  "Visionaries"  Remy  de  Gourmont  wrote,  June 
22,  1006:  "I  am  convinced  that  you  have  written  a 
very  curious,  very  beautiful  book,  and  one  of  that 
sort  comes  to  us  rarely." 


Paul  Bourget  wrote,  Lundi  de  Paques,  1909,  of 
"Egoists":  "I  have  browsed  through  the  pages  of 
your  book  and  found  that  you  touch  in  a  sympathetic 
style  on  diverse  problems,  artistic  and  literary.  In  the 
case  of  Stendhal  your  catholicity  of  treatment  is  ex 
tremely  rare  and  courageous." 


Dr.  Georg  Brandes,  the  versatile  and  profound 
Danish  critic,  wrote:  "I  find  your  breadth  of  view 
and  its  expression  more  European  than  American;  but 
the  essential  thing  is  that  you  are  an  artist  to  your  very 
marrow." 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

IVORY  APES  AND  PEACOCKS 

12mo.    $1.50  net 

"Out  of  the  depressing  welter  of  our  American  writing  upon 
aesthetics,  with  its  incredible  thinness  and  triteness  and  paltriness, 
its  intellectual  sterility,  its  miraculous  dulness,  its  limitless  and 
appalling  vapidity,  Mr.  James  Huneker,  and  the  small  and  honor 
able  minority  of  his  peers,  emerge  with  a  conspicuousness  that  is 
both  comforting  and  disgraceful.  .  .  .  Susceptibility,  clairvoyance, 
immediacy  of  response,  are  his;  he  is  the  friend  of  any  talent  that  is 
fine  and  strange  and  frank  enough  to  incur  the  dislike  of  the  mighty 
army  of  Bourbons,  Puritans,  and  Boeotians.  He  is  innocent  of 
prepossessions.  He  is  infinitely  flexible  and  generous.  Yet  if,  in 
the  twenty  years  that  we  have  been  reading  him,  he  has  ever  praised 
a  commonplace  talent,  we  have  no  recollection  of  it.  His  critical 
tact  is  well-nigh  infallible.  .  .  .  His  position  among  writers  on 
aesthetics  is  anomalous  and  incredible:  no  merchant  traffics  in  his 
heart,  yet  he  commands  a  large,  an  eager,  an  affectionate  public. 
Is  it  because  he  is  both  vivid  and  acute,  robust  yet  fine-fingered, 
tolerant  yet  unyielding,  astringent  yet  tender — a  mellow  pessimist, 
a  kindly  cynic?  Or  is  it  rather  because  he  is,  primarily,  a  tem 
perament — dynamic,  contagious,  lovable,  inveterately  alive — ex 
pressing  itself  through  the  most  transparent  of  the  arts?" 
—LAWRENCE  OILMAN,  in  North  American  Review  (October,  1915). 


NEW  COSMOPOLIS 

12mo.    $1.50  net 

"Mr.  James  Huneker,  critic  of  music  in  the  first  place,  is  a  crafts 
man  of  diverse  accomplishment  who  occupies  a  distinctive  and 
distinguished  place  among  present-day  American  essayists.  He  is 
intensely  'modern,'  well  read  in  recent  European  writers,  and  not 
lacking  sympathy  with  the  more  rebellious  spirits.  Ancient  seren 
ity  has  laid  no  chastening  hand  on  his  thought  and  style,  but  he  has 
achieved  at  times  a  fineness  of  expression  that  lifts  his  work  above 
that  of  the  many  eager  and  artistic  souls  who  strive  to  be  the  thinkers 
of  New  England  to-day.  He  flings  off  his  impressions  at  fervent 
heat;  he  is  not  ashamed  to  be  enthusiastic;  and  he  cannot  escape 
that  large  sentimentality  which,  to  less  disciplined  transatlantic 
writers,  is  known  nakedly  as  'heart  interest.'  Out  of  his  chaos 
of  reading  and  observation  he  has,  however,  evolved  a  criticism  of 
life  that  makes  for  intellectual  cultivation,  although  it  is  of  a  Bo 
hemian  rather  than  an  academic  kind.  Given  a  different  environ 
ment,  another  training,  Mr.  Huneker  might  have  emerged  as  an 
American  Walter  Pater." — London  Athenaum  (November  6,  1915). 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

MELOMANIACS 

12mo.    $1.50  net 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  sum  up  ' Melomaniacs'  in  a  phrase. 
Never  did  a  book,  in  my  opinion  at  any  rate,  exhibit  greater  con 
trasts,  not,  perhaps,  of  strength  and  weakness,  but  of  clearness  and 
obscurity.  It  is  inexplicably  uneven,  as  if  the  writer  were  perpetu 
ally  playing  on  the  boundary  line  that  divides  sanity  of  thought  from 
intellectual  chaos.  There  is  method  in  the  madness,  but  it  is  a 
method  of  intangible  ideas.  Nevertheless,  there  is  genius  written 
over  a  large  portion  of  it,  and  to  a  musician  the  wealth  of  musical 
imagination  is  a  living  spring  of  thought." 
— HAROLD  E.  GORST,  in  London  Saturday  Review  (Dec.  8, 1906). 


VISIONARIES 

12mo.    $1.50  net 

"In  'The  Spiral  Road'  and  in  some'of  the  other  stories  both  fan 
tasy  and  narrative  may  be  compared  with  Hawthorne  in  his  most 
unearthly  moods.  The  younger  man  has  read  his  Nietzsche  and  has 
cast  off  his  heritage  of  simple  morals.  Hawthorne's  Puritanism  finds 
no  echo  in  these  modern  souls,  all  sceptical,  wavering,  and  unblessed. 
But  Hawthorne's  splendor  of  vision  and  his  power  of  sympathy  with 
a  tormented  mind  do  live  again  in  the  best  of  Mr.  Huneker's  stories." 
— London  Academy  (Feb.  3,  1906). 


ICONOCLASTS: 

A  Book  o!  Dramatists 
12mo.    $1.50  net 

"Hia  style  is  a  little  jerky,  but  it  is  one  of  those  rare  styles  in  which 
e  are  led  to  expect  some  significance,  if  not  wit,  in  every  sentence." 
— G.  K.  CHESTERTON,  in  London  Daily  News. 


MEZZOTINTS  IN  MODERN 
MUSIC 

12mo.    $1.50  net 

"Mr.  Huneker  is,  in  the  best  sense,  a  critic;  he  listens  to  the 
music  and  gives  you  his  impressions  as  rapidly  and  in  as  few  words 
as  possible;  or  he  sketches  the  composers  in  fine,  broad,  sweeping 
strokes  with  a  magnificent  disregard  for  unimportant  details.  And 
as  Mr.  Huneker  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  powerful  personality,  a  man  of 
quick  brain  and  an  energetic  imagination,  a  man  of  moods  and  tem 
perament — a  string  that  vibrates  and  sings  in  response  to  music — 
we  get  in  these  essays  of  his  a  distinctly  original  and  very  valuable 
contribution  to  the  world's  tiny  musical  literature." 

— J.  F.  RUNCIMAN,  in  London  Saturday  Review. 


BOOKS    BY    JAMES    HUNEKER 

FRANZ  LISZT 

WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS 
12mo.    $2.00  net 


CHOPIN  :     The  Man  and  His  Music 

12mo.    $2.00  net 


OVERTONES: 

A  Book  of  Temperaments 

WITH  FRONTISPIECE  PORTRAIT  OF  RICHARD  STRAUSS 
12mo.    $1.50  net 

"In  some  respects  Mr.  Huneker  must  be  reckoned  the  most 
brilliant  of  all  living  writers  on  matters  musical." 

— Academy,  London. 

THE  PATHOS  OF  DISTANCE 

A  Book  of  a  Thousand  and  One  Moments 
12mo.    $2.00  net 

"He  talks  about  Bergson  as  well  as  Matisse;  he  never  can  keep 
still  about  Wagner;  he  hauls  over  his  French  library  of  modern 
immortals,  and  he  gives  a  touch  to  George  Moore,  to  Arthur  Davies, 
and  to  many  another  valiant  worker  in  paint,  music,  and  letters. 
The  book  is  stimulating;  brilliant  even  with  an  unexpected  bril 
liancy."— Chicago  Tribune. 


PROMENADES  OF  AN 
IMPRESSIONIST 

12mo.    $1.50  net 

"We  like  best  such  sober  essays  as  those  which  analyze  for  us  the 
technical  contributions  of  C6zanne  and  Rodin.  Here  Mr.  Huneker 
is  a  real  interpreter,  and  here  his  long  experience  of  men  and  ways 
in  art  counts  for  much.  Charming,  in  the  slighter  vein,  are  such 
appreciations  as  the  Monticelli  and  Chardin." — FRANK  JEWETT 
MATHER,  JR.,  in  New  York  Nation  and  Evening  Post. 


EGOISTS 

WITH  PORTRAIT  AND  FACSIMILE  REPRODUCTIONS 
12mo.    $1.50  net 

"  Closely  and  yet  lightly  written,  full  of  facts,  yet  as  amusing  as 
a  bit  of  discursive  talk,  penetrating,  candid,  and  very  shrewd." 
— ROYAL  CORTISSOZ,  in  the  New  York  Tribune. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWE1 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


MAY  1 7  19*? 


f  . 

University  of  California 
Berkeley 


LD  21  A-5.0?n-12,'60 
(B6221slO)47GB 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


